


A Good Man

by winterkill



Series: Love is the Death of Duty [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bisexual Jon Snow, Castle Black, First Time, M/M, Pining, Prostitution, Satin POV, Sharing a Bed, Smut, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22732120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Satin has few choices, but at the moment, if he could choose, he would choose Jon Snow.A series of Jon and Satin centered extras for my ficLove is the Death of Duty.
Relationships: Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Series: Love is the Death of Duty [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687402
Comments: 128
Kudos: 247





	1. Satin I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of Jon and Satin focused extras for _Love is the Death of Duty._ The first two parts take place at Castle Black.
> 
> If you're reading a fic about Satin Flowers, this is probably expected, but Satin has not had a pleasant life. Honestly, I went too easy on the suffering, but there's only so much I can write about child prostitution in Westeros before I depress myself. There's nothing terribly specific here, but the experience _definitely_ forms Satin's worldview. He also experiences some non-detailed sexual harassment.

The men at Castle Black mock his name, but that’s something Satin can tolerate. They mocked him in prison, and the entire journey north. He was born to a whore, who named him after the finest thing she knew. Customers told him the name suited him because he was the prettiest one there.

Satin doesn't feel pretty--he feels like _nothing_ because that's how he's always been treated.

He’s at Castle Black three days when one of his future sworn brothers, a burly man with sour breath, corners Satin in the armory and asks if he’ll suck his cock.

“You’re the closest thing to a girl here,” he says, “And I reckon you’ve spent enough time on your knees.”

Satin freezes, realizing immediately the man could overpower him. There is no one to protect him here. _Was I safer in the brothel?_ That thought seemed absurd until now. The boon of his punishment to serve the Night’s Watch is that, hopefully, no one will try and fuck him. There’s men here, though, men who haven’t seen a woman in a long, long time. Men who swore oaths. Men who, if desperate enough, will look at Satin just as that man is looking at him now.

 _I should’ve known better to think anything would change._

“I won’t,” Satin replies, “because I don’t want to.”

He’s never been in a position to refuse before, so he exercises his right to do so. The man may bash his face in, but he won’t force Satin to his knees.

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?” The man gets closer, spraying spittle as he speaks. Satin knows the kind of man he is--he wants power over someone, and Satin is the easiest choice. “You’re a fresh recruit. What _fucking_ right to do you have to refuse me?”

“As much right as anyone,” Satin tries not to let his voice waver.

“Now, you--”

“Do we have a problem here?”

The man turns to the newly opened door; Satin shivers at the blast of cold air. Both of them recognize the man at the door immediately--Jon Snow stands backlit by the sun glinting off the snow in the training yard.

“We were just havin’ a chat,” the man grunts as Jon comes closer, “Nothin’ untoward.”

“Good,” Jon replies, “It’s time for training in the yard. You should go.”

The man grumbles something Satin can’t make out before stomping past Jon. Jon shuts the door behind him and comes over to Satin. They haven’t really spoken much, but Jon greeted him upon his arrival at Castle Black.

“Are you alright?”

Satin nods over and over, like the repetition of the gesture will make the situation better. It doesn’t, of course--his heart is still racing, and all he can think is _not here, too_.

“I’m fine,” he says instead.

Jon leans against the wall and crosses his arms, “My uncle, Benjen Stark, was a man of the Night’s Watch. He came to visit us at Winterfell, and I decided to join.”

“Y-you chose this?” Satin tries, and mostly fails, to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Jon’s direwolf stops at his feet, so Satin reaches out to scratch him between his ears. People seem wary of Ghost and give him a wide berth, but Satin is warier of people.

Much to his surprise, Jon laughs. On the first day here, Satin heard talk of how sullen Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s highborn bastard, was. “I did,” he answers, “I wanted to be a hero, a defender of the realm.”

“ _Oh_.”

“The men here...aren’t like that,” Jon scowls, “Some are, of course, but a lot are more akin to...that.”

“I’ve known more men like him than I have men who wanted to save the realm.” Satin is tired, so tired, of being at the mercy of people like that. 

“The ratio is quite poor.”

Satin nods.

“If you--” Jon starts.

Satin has the horrible, sinking feeling that he’s going to be asked for something. _I saved you from that boorish oaf, and now you owe me._ Jon was significantly more attractive than that man. Satin had seen him from afar with a sword--he was graceful, and lean, and up close his gray eyes seemed welcoming.

...None of that means Satin wants to repay a kind deed with his body. He wants to belong to himself, now, and for no one to have the power to take what he doesn’t want to give.

Instead, Jon says, “If you need anything, or anyone bothers you, come find me.”

He can’t stop himself from blurting “...Really?”

A look of mild confusion crosses Jon’s face, “I was...unpopular when I first arrived here, and it made me wonder if I made a misstep.”

“But you had a choice,” Satin laments his lack of one, a defining feature of his life. “They all _know.”_ He doesn’t feel the need to outright say what everyone knows--Jon surely has heard it. “I suppose I thought it would be different here.”

Jon puts a hand on his shoulder; Satin barely feels the pressure of it through the layers of wool, fur, and boiled leather they all wear to keep from freezing, not that it really abates the cold. He turns to look up at Jon.

“I mean it; if this happens again, tell me. You’ll be our sworn brother, and we have no one else to protect us but our own.”

Satin doesn’t tell Jon that is the first time anyone ever defended him. People intervened to stop violence, but it was only so he would be well enough for another person to toss coin at him. Jon did it simply because it was the right thing, and Satin has never known any man that would do such a thing for a boy whore from Oldtown.

* * *

A few months pass, and Satin starts to learn some truths about Castle Black.

The first is that he isn’t meant to be a soldier. Satin’s hands blister from holding a sword and shield, and he’s not strong enough for trekking through snow drifts. He’s lived his life indoors amidst pillows and pouring wine, and it _shows._ Even his fellow recruits who were arrested for thieving and had no formal training fare better than he does. 

He’s able to make friends--the new recruits are kinder than those in command, and once the others realize there’s more to Satin than being a whore, they warm to him. Satin is unused to having friends; a brothel doesn’t make for the best spot to make them, and he was always wary of people’s intentions. They mock him, but as Satin gets to know them, it softens to a teasing that he doesn’t mind. They eat together in the mess hall and complain and jape about the same things.

Satin falls into his cot each night so exhausted that it almost makes him forget how fucking _cold_ it is. 

The second is that Jon Snow is a _good_ man, the best man Satin has never met, and it gives him feelings he doesn’t know what to do with. It’s a boon that Satin _can’t_ do anything about them. It started when Jon dissuaded the man in the armory, and it builds from the fact that Jon pays attention to him. He surely doesn’t think he’s doing anything, but to Satin it feels like a sunbeam warming him.

Jon offers to help him with his abominable sword work. He doesn’t even seem particularly irritated when Satin cowers behind the wooden shield. It takes very, very little force to knock him to the ground.

Satin _hates_ holding a sword, but he also hates the idea of being skewered by a wildling and being left to freeze to death in a snowdrift. He tries not to complain too much, but the sword and shield are heavy, and sometimes he can’t stop himself. Jon chides him more than once, tells him the sword and shield are as heavy as they need to be and that he should get back up.

_This is my life, now, and I’m going to try and make the best of it._

That doesn’t make it easy.

“I wasn’t made for this,” Satin says one morning, flat on his back on the frozen ground.

Jon looks down at him, dark hair backlit by the sun, “It’s not the work of a season.”

“How long?”

“A decade, mayhaps,” Jon looks thoughtful, “I was probably five summers old the first time my father handed me a practice sword.”

 _That’s a long time._ When Satin was five, he was running through the brothel fetching people things and getting yelled at for being underfoot. Jon Snow was a bastard, and yet their lives had been so different. Jon’s mother could’ve been a whore, too, but his father was Ned Stark.

“I’m not sure a decade will help that much.”

Jon holds out a hand to help Satin off the ground, “A sword isn’t the only weapon.”

The first time Satin hits a crossbow target from a respectable distance, he lets out a whoop so loud that all the other recruits turn and stare at him. He expects to be admonished, but Grenn claps him so hard on the back that he nearly falls, face first, into the snow.

“You fuckin’ did it,” Grenn says, “Now, repeat it.”

Winding the crossbow is easier than the sword or the longbow, and the distance suits Satin just fine. When Jon, or anyone else, comes at him with even a practice sword, he panics and nearly drops his own shield.

Satin practices at it until he’s able to repeatedly hit the target, and feels a sense of masculine pride that he’s _definitely_ never felt before. The ability to _do_ something, to defend himself from someone coming at him. He’ll never be like Jon, wielding his Valyrian steel sword, but it’s something he learned, and that feels _amazing._

* * *

Crossbow aside, Satin will never be a fighter, but not everyone here is. He visits Maester Aemon, and Samwell Tarly is usually present. Sam is highborn and portly and _terrible_ with a sword. But he's learned, and that makes him useful. He didn't think he belonged here, but found purpose regardless.

Today, Satin runs a message from Jon to the library where Sam can be found.

"Can you read it to me?" Sam asks. Satin can barely see his head over a stack of papers.

" _Oh."_

The note isn't anything sensitive, just a request for a book, but Satin panics when he unfurls the parchment.

Sam notices the pause and stands, "Sorry. I forgot, so few people here can read."

Most men who take the black are lowborn criminals who'd have no access to schooling. 

"I can," Satin replies, meeting Sam’s gaze, just visible over the top of the books. "Not well, but some."

"If you would, then."

The title of the book is simple, so Satin manages. He almost wishes he hadn't said anything--now someone will drop some history tome in his lap, and he will be utterly lost.

Sam fetches the book off a stack and passes it to Satin, "Can you write, too?"

"I know my letters."

"How?" 

"There was a, um--" Satin pauses; he doesn't enjoy talking about specifics because they engender scorn or pity, and both are a burden he doesn't want to carry. "Someone came and taught us. Not much, but I remember it."

"You were born in a brothel?"

Satin nods and keeps his head up. Sam’s tone doesn't hold judgment, but even if it did, Satin won't let the truth make him feel small ever again.

Sam doesn't need to know the rest--that the man who taught him liked young boys, and that it was a game Satin didn't want to play but had no choice. The letters stuck with him, though, even though a whore had no need for reading. His mother certainly never learned.

"I've had little practice." He feels the need to temper Sam’s expectations. 

"That's fine. There's always something that needs copied, and men who can't read at all make mistakes and can't find them."

It makes for some tedious afternoons, but he finds himself understanding more of what he's copying as the weeks pass. It's better than the sword, and it's infinitely better than earning coin for someone else on his back, so Satin doesn't complain.

* * *

Using a crossbow at a target and shooting it at men are two very different things--a lesson Satin learns hard and fast when the wildlings attack Castle Black. He pisses himself when the war horns sound, and by the end of it all, he retches into the snow.

 _I killed men_ , he thinks over and over as he helps Jon descend the King’s Tower on his crutches. He is still reeling from the smells and the screams. _They would’ve killed us,_ he repeats. _It was us or them._

Thanks to Sam’s interference, Jon is named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch--an unpopular choice, but one Satin agrees with it. Jon is the best man there. He’s the best man Satin’s ever known, and even though he’s only nineteen, he’s known many, _many_ men. 

What Satin _can’t_ quite figure out is why Jon decides he should be his steward.

* * *

Satin doesn’t miss the barracks.

The steward’s quarters connected to Jon’s are small, but they’re _his_. There’s no more snoring of the man next to him, or a too-loud conversation when some of his sworn brothers stumble in drunk on ale. There’s no more waking up to find a drunken someone pawing at him in the dark.

_You’re almost like a girl._

He doesn’t tell Jon about those instances, and he _definitely_ won’t now that Jon is named Lord Commander. He would punish them, and Satin doesn’t want that. They’re not like the man in the armory all those months ago--all Satin has to do is shove them away and guide them to their beds.

They’re just lonely and cold, and he’s the closest thing they can get to what they desire. Satin grew up in a place where sex was everywhere--from long before he could remember, he’d seen the act between all manner of people, and not always behind closed doors. The idea that it’s forbidden by oath still seems odd.

People still do it--it’s just hidden. If Satin knows one truth, it’s that there’s little that will stop people from fucking, and if someone takes away what they _want_ , they'll find the next closest thing.

Some of his sworn brothers go to Mole's Town for prostitutes. They invite Satin, twice, and he refuses both times. A whore buying a whore seems absurd. He won’t do to another what was done to him.

Sometimes, the choice is another sworn brother. Satin hears them in the barracks, rutting against one another. It _never_ sounds comfortable, but he’s not sure that’s the point. He entertains the daydream of offering advice, but that would require any of them to talk about it in daylight.

Those men aren’t like him--given a choice, they wouldn’t choose that company. They’d have wives, maybe some of them did once; the whores and one another are desperate choices borne of their circumstances. 

Satin has few choices, but at the moment, _if_ he could choose, he would choose Jon Snow.

Jon never goes to the brothels, and Jon never touches him without permission. He knew that Jon broke his oath--the red-haired wildling girl who died when Castle Black was attacked, but, from the little Satin knows, it seemed like a genuine affection between them.

He _wants_ a genuine affection--someone to look after him and hold him, someone he can do that for in return. Jon seems _innocent_ , like he would never think to hurt or treat Satin the way others had. 

It’s probably a fantasy Satin dreams up. Jon is kind, but Jon is just a man, and men are just that-- _men_.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for people to start guessing how Satin Flowers, the boy whore from Oldtown, landed the position of steward to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

“There’s only one way,” one of his sworn brothers says at dinner.

“He’s suckin’ the Lord Commander’s cock,” another finishes.

“Well, they’re the prettiest things here.”

The entire group laughs.

There’s other variations of the rumor, but they all end the same way--Satin is steward because Jon Snow fucks him, because he gets on his knees and services the Lord Commander. _This_ was what Satin feared, and why it felt safer for the fact that Jon would _never_ want him--he would drag honorable, _kind_ , Jon Snow into the taint that comes off of him in waves.

“My lord,” he tells Jon one evening, “I’m sure you pay no mind to rumors, but some of the men are saying--”

“I know what they’re saying, “ Jon’s tone was stern.

Satin is a bit glad not to have to say it aloud. “Then dismiss me, my lord, choose someone more appropriate.”

“You’re the best choice,” Jon replies, “I can discipline them,”

Satin shakes his head violently, “ _Please_ don’t--reacting to it will only worsen it. They’re just words.”

Jon looks a bit sad, and says, “Words can wound as much as a sword.”

* * *

It's the coldest night _ever_ when Jon comes to the door of Satin's steward quarters and invites him into his bed. Every logical part of Satin’s mind, the parts concerned with self-preservation, screams _bad idea._ The traitorous part of his heart that longs for _something_ says _yes_ and wins out.

That, and he’s fairly convinced he’ll freeze to death on his own.

Satin curls around Ghost, presses his face into the dense fur on the direwolf’s nape. He is so, _so_ warm. Other people were wary of him, but Satin always found the beast affectionate. If he was kind to Jon, Ghost would be kind to him. 

Jon lays on his back, as rigid as if he’s been frozen already. They aren't touching but they could be with the smallest shift in movement. _He couldn't have meant this innocently._ What man would ask such a thing and not have intentions? It was coy, perhaps, but Jon seemed reticent about these things.

Tonight might be the night that Jon would touch him, taking advantage of the cold and the dark to reach out to Satin. It won’t mean anything other than Jon is lonely and needs an outlet for those feelings. Jon Snow may not buy a prostitute in Mole’s Town, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take advantage should a situation present itself.

Satin decides, as he falls asleep, to let Jon do whatever he wants. He’s tired of fighting, swimming upstream against his feelings. If he awakes to Jon pressing him into the mattress, if Jon asks him to suck his cock, or to fuck him, Satin will oblige. _Let the rumors become true._ He tried to be something else, but no matter what pretty words anyone uses about the equality of the Night’s Watch, Satin was born a whore. 

Jon was what he used to dream of--someone who would look at him kindly, someone who could take him away and make him feel like something else. For that, he can be what Jon wants.

He sleeps better than he has in all the months at Castle Black.

The fire is low when he awakes, a weak, pale light coming in through the gaps in the shuttered windows. Jon is pressed against his back, an arm around his waist and his hard cock pressed against Satin. His instinctual reaction is to push back against Jon--he stops himself, but a second too late. 

If Jon notices he's awake, would he roughly grab Satin’s shoulders and push him onto his stomach? Satin knows how these things go.

 _None_ of that happens--a few moments pass, and Jon must be asleep. He lets out tiny exhales of breath that tickle the back of Satin’s neck. His arms are strong, and stable, and Satin feels _safe_ tucked between him and Ghost. It’s all of Jon’s words about keeping an eye on him made manifest in an action. 

It’s so, so good that Satin thinks he’s going to cry; his tears haven’t meant anything to anyone in so long that he thought he had none left. He takes a deep breath instead.

When Jon wakes up, he tenses and immediately lets go of Satin, rolling onto his back. _He’s embarrassed._ Satin decides to let Jon go and pretend to be asleep. He doesn’t think he’s the source of Jon’s embarrassment. It’s surprising, and charming, that Jon would hide something so normal from a whore.

It can’t be long until the bell will sound that signals them to rise. Eventually, Satin stretches to let Jon know he’s awake. He turns over to find Jon staring at the ceiling. 

“My lord,” Satin whispers, “did you sleep well?”

He nods against the pillow, “I did. Were you warm enough?”

 _The warmest I’ve ever been,_ Satin doesn’t say. Instead, he replies, “I was. Thank you.”

Jon’s brow furrows, like he’s contemplating something bad he’s done, but he didn’t touch Satin. He had access, and authority, and Jon didn’t use _either_ of them. Satin finds himself smiling, even though he very much wants Jon to reach for him. Even if Jon never does, he’s found someone worthy of his loyalty.

“We should rise,” Jon runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. Satin thinks he _might_ be blushing. “Next time you’re cold, Ghost seems to like you here.”

Satin _never_ should've compared Jon to other men.


	2. Satin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The same one all our sworn brothers break,” Satin answers, “With the whores in Mole’s Town, with one another under the cover of darkness.”
> 
> “Did they invite you?”
> 
> Satin nods and takes a sip of wine, “A whore buying a whore is a bad jape.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so thrilled with the response this got! Writing a rarepair and having people into it is super gratifying. The chapter count on this has been upped to seven because I keep having ideas!
> 
> This week you get the first time they bang. :D

Satin grows a beard.

He sort of hates it, but it's too cold to keep his face bare, and he starts to see the utility of it. Castle Black isn't filled with mirrors, but everytime he catches his appearance on a reflective surface, he feels like he's looking at someone else. 

_I look like I could pass at belonging here._

No one would buy him like this, which is quite empowering; it also wards off _most_ people who might touch him. The beard makes it harder to imagine what they want him to be. Besides, the only man Satin _doesn’t_ want to ward off is Jon, and he doesn’t think a beard will make a whit of difference on that front.

* * *

It happens again on another cold night, and then another.

It always begins and ends the same--Jon sleeps on his back with Satin between him and Ghost. Satin half wonders if someone will notice, but the Lord Commander’s chambers lock, and no one will knock on the door of his smaller chamber.

Satin supposes, too, that they’re not really _doing_ anything. He’s not even sure if the oath he swore in the weirwood even forbade the things he desires. _Take no wife; father no children._ Neither of those things matter here. What _matters_ is the unspoken _thing_ between them. Jon feels it, too, and Satin knows--Jon doesn’t hide his desire well; it bleeds through in a dozen different gestures.

Jon is stoic and taciturn; all Satin can do is his duty--follow the orders the Lord Commander gives him. He tends to armor and swords and saddles horses. All of these are things Jon has to teach Satin how to do, which makes things even worse.

_If he chose someone who wasn’t me, he wouldn’t have to teach him his job._

The domestic component is easier--he has yet to master the timing of keeping the fire lit, but he can pour wine and fetch meals and lay out clothing. The tasks are helpful and better than fighting no matter his modest, but improving, skill with the crossbow.

Seducing Jon wouldn’t be hard, but that’s not what Satin wants. He wants Jon to want him as he is, like in the few moments when he wakes up in the morning. Jon’s awake for some of those moments, too.

* * *

“Satin,” Jon says one night after Satin has poured him mulled wine and made to leave, “Will you drink with me? I find myself wanting company.”

“If you wish, my lord.”

Satin pours himself a glass, less than he poured for Jon. He never drinks too much--it leads to being vulnerable, and that never ended well. He _could_ be in Jon’s company, though. If he passed out in Jon’s bed, he’d wake up covered in furs with a glass of water on the bedside table. He wouldn’t wake up with some drunken cur trying to get under his clothes.

He takes a sip of the wine; it’s spiced and warm.

“I was thinking about my family,” Jon admits after a few moments of silence, “I’ve been stuck here, and they’re--” He doesn’t finish, but Satin knows; the death of Ned Stark, of Jon’s half-siblings, missing or worse. “My father promised to tell me who my mother was when we next spoke.”

_Now that chance is gone._

Satin doesn’t know what to say, so he says, “I’m sorry.” 

To his great surprise, Jon smiles, just the littlest bit, “Thank you.”

Jon has thanked Satin more times in the last few months than he’s been thanked in his entire life. He’s gracious about duties that are Satin’s job.

Now, they’re sitting here drinking wine like equals, like what Jon believes the Night’s Watch should be. That ideal of equality, even unrealized, makes Satin’s heart race in his chest. Men don’t think such things, men seize power where they can, and when there’s none to take, they find someone to grind under their boot.

Satin pours himself another glass and does the same for Jon. He drinks until he feels like he’s wrapped in cotton.

Jon takes his wine, paces, and eventually sits on the edge of his bed. “I’m not right for this. There are _better_ men, more experienced men.”

Satin drunkenly thinks _you’re perfect_ , but says, “There are no better men.”

“You think higher of me than you ought.”

“My lord,” Satin goes to Jon, thinks of sitting beside him on the bed and decides against it. _Too forward._ “Why do you doubt yourself?”

“Because I never asked for this,” Jon closes his eyes, “Satin, sit with me.”

Satin obeys because it’s his duty, and having that coincide with what he wants is rare. Jon opens his eyes when the mattress dips. Perhaps Satin sits a bit too close; Jon’s grey eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t move.

“You keep your oaths better than most of the men here,” Satin knows the tone his voice takes; he’s praising Jon, but he seeks to flatter him, to engender a reaction. _Everyone reacts the same._ He doesn’t want Jon to treat him like a whore, so Satin shouldn’t approach Jon like a customer.

“I’ve broken one of them.”

“Ah,” Satin replies, “can I guess which one?”

“Yes.”

 _The wildling girl._ He knows that Jon grieves her. “The same one all our sworn brothers break,” Satin answers, “With the whores in Mole’s Town, with one another under the cover of darkness.”

“Did they invite you?”

Satin nods and takes a sip of wine, “A whore buying a whore is a bad jape.”

“You’re my brother,” Jon’s had too much wine, so he sounds particularly vehement about their sense of fraternity. “Whatever you were before, you’re one of us now.”

It’s like winding a crossbow--the tension and the release of the bolt, swift and irretrievable. Satin can’t resist the temptation that’s been encroaching on him for months. Jon has all the power; he could have Satin sentenced to a month of overnight watches, or put in a stockade, or flogged. There’s a dozen punishments the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch could mete out, and Satin leans in and steals a kiss regardless. 

It’s a _nice_ kiss. Jon tastes like wine, and he freezes, letting his empty goblet slide from his hand to clang on the floor. Then, Jon seems to find himself, returns the gesture and puts his hand on Satin’s knee. He expects one of two things: either Jon is going to push him away, or push him onto the bed. 

What he doesn’t expect is for Jon to yield, to let out a sigh that sounds so foreign from _any_ Satin’s heard. The sound gives Satin a feeling so intense he pushes Jon back onto the furs without breaking the kiss. When he runs his tongue against Jon’s lips, he’s granted entry. Jon’s beard tickles, and the reverse must be true. Satin thinks of it scraping against a variety of sensitive bits of skin, and his cock likes _that_ idea immensely. 

“I’ll accept my punishment,” Satin gasps when they part.

“Punishment?”

Jon reaches up like he’s going to touch him and halts. The tiny hesitations in his movements are so, so telling of his character. How to tell Jon that he’s never wanted anything like this? Desiring someone is foreign and wonderful. 

“That was untoward of me.”

“You only stole a kiss.”

“I’d steal more than that.”

“I’ve looked at other men,” Jon admits, “but I didn’t think I---you’re under my command; it wouldn’t be right to--”

“What if I asked?” _Begged._ Satin has few ways to keep his pride, and he might give those up, if Jon asked him to.

“What if you--” Jon pauses, clearly not having the language to express his thoughts, “What if I--”

Satin chuckles, “Do you know how the act works between men?”

His answer is a scowl and an obstinate tone, “I’ve heard stories.”

Satin won’t say that Jon is asking to be fucked--he knows what that feels like, the harshness the word can bring if said the wrong way. “You’re asking to be on the receiving end.”

Jon flushes in embarrassment; it only highlights his inexperience, “I don’t know the technique.”

Satin wishes that he could be as Jon is--nervous and seeking a new experience. Then, they could learn together, and he wouldn’t be Satin Flowers, the boy whore from Oldtown who’s been fucked by more people that he can count. He wouldn’t carry the remnants of everyone who used him. 

“I know it,” he answers slowly, “but not in a way I'd want to share.” _I don’t want pity._ Not from anyone, but especially not from Jon.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not like for a maiden, but it can, if we’re rushed.”

Jon holds out his hand; Satin takes it. “I don't fear pain."

_Then what do you fear, Jon Snow?_

Satin doesn't fear pain from this--he knows how to deal with it. He fears causing Jon pain, that he can only give what he's received, and gentleness was lost to him long ago. 

"I know you want me.”

"It seems I do, and perhaps I have for some time."

Satin goes to Jon, and they meet in the middle to kiss once more. It doesn't occur to Satin just how many layers they both wear to keep from freezing until he starts removing them. Jerkins and shirts and hose and socks. Jon looks faintly embarrassed for the entire process, and Satin is entirely charmed by it. 

It takes an age for Satin to see what he wants to see: Jon in just his smallclothes, brow furrowed as he fumbles over Satin's clothes. Satin touches him, light movements that Jon seems to find entirely distracting. Jon's erection tents his smallclothes, and Satin's heart races at the sight.

 _It's more than just in the morning_ , but he won't say that to Jon.

When Satin is equally unclothed, Jon studies him. The gaze makes Satin nervous; he's never felt this type of anticipation before. Jon is well and truly looking at _him._ There's nothing objectifying in Jon's expression--only earnest curiosity.

Satin reaches out to touch Jon's cock through the fabric, enjoying the hiss of pleasure Jon lets out. He can make Jon come apart, but he doesn't want to just yet. The anticipation might be better than the release.

"I'm nervous," Satin admits, touching Jon with just his fingertips, "I haven't felt that in a long while.”

"I hope I live up to those expectations."

"You already have." 

When it seems cruel to tarry any longer, he tugs, and Jon lifts his hips to aid in the removal of the last of his clothes. Satin does the same with his own.

"You'll have to guide me," Jon says sheepishly.

"We need _something_ \--women have the luck here; their bodies do this part naturally." Satin isn't going to use spit, or worse, _nothing_. He knows that discomfort, during and after. 

"Blade oil?" 

"We can make do with that."

"The bureau."

The floor is cold on Satin's bare feet, and he's glad to return to the bed. He leans into Jon and kisses him, as though it will soothe the future discomfort he's afraid of inflicting. "Turn over."

Jon listens. Satin banks all the pillows on the bed and stuffs them under him. Jon gives him a quizzical expression but drapes himself over them. No one ever _told_ Satin anything, and he thinks he could’ve handled it better had they done so. "Better angle, and this way you don't have to hold yourself up."

The explanation seems to satisfy Jon. 

The sight of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch in such a vulnerable position is _almost_ too much. He stares for too long at the arch of Jon's back and the mop of dark hair pressed against the furs. Jon is _waiting--_ pliant and open.

"Satin?"

"S-sorry," he shakes his head, "You...might not take pleasure from this." 

Satin coats his fingers and has to stop himself from repeating the gesture on his own cock. He could leave Jon there and use the sight to bring himself to completion. He touches Jon's lower back and moves southward, letting him know his aim. He doesn’t breach Jon, merely presses his fingertip against his entrance. As Satin expects, Jon tenses. He holds the position, focuses on the blood pounding in his ears instead of the heat racing through the rest of him.

“Go ahead,” Jon’s voice is muffled, and Satin wonders if he’s hiding his face in embarrassment.

“It’s easier if you try and relax,” he presses forward, and Jon breathes in sharply at being entered. “It's the opposite of what your body wants to do.”

“That’s...accurate.”

It takes a passing moment, but Jon seems to manage; the line of his back softens, and his next exhale is slow and steady. Satin chances movement. He’s never known such gentleness, but he very much wants to try. Jon gasps, not pain, but not pleasure, either.

“Trust me,” Satin says it half for Jon and half for himself.

“I do.”

Eventually, with enough repetition, Jon opens enough under his ministrations that Satin adds a second finger. Jon pushes back against his hand, and Satin knows they’ve crossed that line. He’s tight and hot, and the anticipation of sinking into that _almost_ drives Satin to pick up his pace. The force behind his longing is too much. He won’t, though, because no one has ever cared for his readiness. He’s better than what’s been done to him, and Jon’s trust makes him believe it.

“You’re doing well.”

Jon turns his head so Satin can see his expression in profile, “It’s good, I think. _Strange_ , but after a time--”

Satin adjusts the angle of his fingers, drives deeper and cuts off Jon’s words, “You’re ready.”

“G-good.”

He coats his cock with the oil, circles himself and drags his hand up the shaft. _This won’t take long._ His hands land on Jon’s hips, leaving slick traces of the oil where he touches. When Satin lines himself up, he doesn’t press immediately, just as he did with his fingers. 

“Just the same, but more,” he explains.

Jon nods, and Satin answers him by entering him, slowly, until he’s buried to the hilt. Then, he retreats, giving Jon time to adjust before repeating the motion. Satin keeps a slow place; he wants Jon to feel good, and he wants the good feeling to last. Jon isn’t loud, but his reactions are no less intense--he grips the furs, twists and writhes at Satin’s ministrations. 

It’s _nothing_ like what Satin imagined. 

All he could conceptualize was Jon taking him with rough hands. Satin would have welcomed it, letting Jon take his pleasure. The idea of Jon submitting to him, _trusting_ him…

Jon says Satin’s name--a choked, exalted version of it that he’s never heard. It’s a name for a whore, one that will follow him long past being fucked for coin. From Jon, when they can’t get any closer, Satin _likes_ his name. His hand on Jon’s back reveals a fine sheen of sweat. He wants to be closer; the position is easier, but he laments the impersonal nature of it. How many times had he been pressed into a mattress by someone he couldn’t see? 

Satin doesn’t want Jon to feel that way. He leans over him, not missing a thrust. Jon emits a tiny _ah_ that’s not quite a word. Satin reaches between him and the pillows propping him aloft and tugs him to the side so they land on the bed together with Jon in his arms. He buries his face in Jon’s hair and imagines what it would be like to always be this close to someone. 

“Do you want me to touch you?”

“Please,” Jon answers, pressing back against Satin. 

It’s invitation enough for Satin to reach down and take Jon’s cock in hand. Jon seems overwhelmed by the combination, like he can’t decide which contact to see out. His hips make aborted moments in both directions. Satin can feel his desire mounting. It’s fleeting, this moment, and Satin wants to savor it. Jon comes first; Satin is proud of that. He’s happy to follow himself, spilling into Jon as Jon spilled onto the furs. They’ll need to be cleaned, but it’s Satin’s job anyway. 

It’s a long, long time before either of them speak.

“Are you well?” Satin thinks his voice is so soft Jon might not have heard.

He nods, “I want to sleep for an age, maybe.”

Satin moves so he can look down on Jon; he looks sated and drowsy, a content expression on his features. _I did that._ He gave Jon something, a piece of himself that he offered freely. Jon gave him something in return--a first experience. Satin thought the newness was one directional, but he’s never had a chance to be good to someone.

“I tried to be thorough,” Satin admits after a moment, “There’s no gentleness where I’m from.”

“There’s little here, either. The North is a harsh place, and beyond the Wall is worse.”

He has to disentangle himself from Jon, so Satin pulls back and stares at the ceiling. “You should sleep,” he says, “I’ll return to my chambers.”

It was brief, a sojourn, but it will keep Satin warm for a long while.

“Wait,” Jon blurts, “Can you get a cloth?”

Satin wobbles when he stands. Jon would have a harder time, and fetching things is his duty. The water in the basin isn't warm, but it will do. He wipes his hands as best he can and then passes it to Jon. He looks away as Jon attempts to clean himself up.

Then, well, Satin isn’t sure what _then_ is. He barely imagined this would transpire, let alone the way it did. How to go forward _after_ is an utter blank space.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” Satin realizes it immediately--he’s made it a transaction, and it’s no fault of Jon’s; it’s just what his is accustomed to, and it’s easiest when he’s afraid.

And he's very, _very_ afraid.

Thinking of duty is a bit ridiculous because he’s naked. Satin has been cast out in similar states countless times; he can gather his clothes and return to his room.

When he turns, Jon grabs his wrist, “Wait--I didn’t send you out. I mean, I won’t keep you, if it's your preference.”

“Would you,” Satin takes a deep breath and stomps down the part of his mind that screams _too far, you’ve overstepped._ “Would you like me to stay?”

_Even though I’m a whore._

Jon sits, and the movement makes him wince. Satin expects that, too, no matter how gentle. “Can you add more logs to the fire first?”

An easy task, even if Satin is still poor with the timing of it. When he returns to the bed, Jon is sitting on the edge. “The nights are long this far north,” he says slowly, “I understand why the men seek comfort in another.”

“They’re not so skilled at it,” Satin replies, “If the noises are any indication.”

“I’m no better."

"I am." He could show Jon better versions of what he's known. Satin could supplant the harm done to him with Jon--a _good_ man, a man he trusts, a man who makes his heart feel like it's being squeezed in a vice.

Jon pulls the furs back and gets under them. Satin can think of nothing else but to join him; Jon draws him in like a moth to flame. He could barely resist before, and now there’s no hope. Ghost isn’t in the room, but Satin warrants they won’t freeze. 

Jon smiles, shy and rare, "I enjoyed that."

"I did, too,” Satin finds himself smiling. “I assumed you’d--most don’t want _me_ to--" _Not many men want to pay a whore to fuck them._ Satin doesn’t want to say those words.

 _"_ Truly?"

“It’s not about desire; it’s about feeling powerful."

"I don’t need to feel powerful,” Jon rests his cheek against Satin’s shoulder, “but I would like to feel warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make me shriek with glee!


	3. Satin III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satin will tell Jon something he figured out six months ago, staring at the ceiling of his tiny quarters in the merchant’s house where he’d found employment--that the entire time he was thinking of his admiration for Jon, what he was really thinking about was love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still in awe at response this is getting! I'm so glad everyone is enjoying Jon and Satin.

Satin spends the entire journey from Oldtown to King’s Landing pondering _exactly_ what he’s going to say when he gets there. The journey is long, so it leaves him with an abundance of time to do so. He has lots of ideas, too, some more outlandish than others.

He’ll tell Jon something he figured out six months ago, staring at the ceiling of his tiny quarters in the merchant’s house where he’d found employment--that the entire time he was thinking of his admiration for Jon, what Satin was _really_ thinking about was love. 

That night, Satin hadn’t slept a wink; he laid there trying to pinpoint the moment his feelings shifted. Affection was the first thing that died growing up in a brothel; there was no place for it, and it only served to hurt him. The only person who ever showed him affection was his mother, and she’d been gone long enough that it almost felt like a dream. When he was younger, he used to seek it--if a client was kind to him, maybe, if he was satisfied enough, he’d take Satin away. 

Better to be one person’s object than used and discarded.

It never happened, of course--the moment Satin let his guard down, the moment he thought that maybe, _maybe_ a person would save him, that there was something genuine behind the coin paid for him, the illusion was shattered. No one who would buy a boy whore was the kind of person who would _see_ him and save him. 

Satin couldn’t have been older than fourteen when he stopped hoping. A _good_ person would never find him where he was. 

Scorn wasn’t his companion until he left the brothel. There, no one mocked him for the truth because they would’ve been mocking themselves. He hadn’t been in the prison in Gulltown for long, but the men there jeered at him, and a few tried to touch him. At least at the brothel if someone was too rough, they’d get thrown out unless they’d paid _a lot_ of gold.

Then, people looked away.

The journey to Castle Black was better--more supervision meant the harassment was kept to words, and words he could deal with. Satin’s known much worse than words.

Or, mayhaps, he’ll tell Jon a simpler truth--that he wishes he’d asked if Jon wanted him to come to Winterfell. When the Night’s Watch was dissolved, many of them were pardoned--Satin included, and they wandered off to wherever they came from. Only Satin came from a place he didn’t want to return to.

Castle Black was better, and Jon, brief as it was, was better than anything he’d known.

He could’ve asked Jon _do you need someone, too?_ Only Jon told Satin, fondly, about his brothers and sisters, and the ancient castle that was his home. Jon was a bastard, too, but they weren't alike at all--Jon had a family, and Satin surely thought the answer was _no_.

He’d found something warm in the frozen North, but that it wasn’t meant to stay his.

* * *

King's Landing is bigger than Oldtown, but so much it is damaged or under repair than it almost doesn't feel like it. 

Satin doesn't exactly have a _plan._ He doesn't think he can walk up to the gates of the Red Keep and ask to see Jon Snow. The guards won't listen or care if he introduces himself as Satin Flowers. Being a whore from Oldtown isn't a credential, and being of the Night's Watch doesn't exactly have clout.

So he wanders around, imagines the city more in a state of disrepair than it is, imagines Jon staring at plans drawn up by architects and looking and ledgers. Satin knows little about city planning, but what he _does_ know, to the core of his being, is Jon's diligence. The city is steeped in it.

The people he passes seem content and productive. He doesn't pass a single beggar or children who seem homeless. Even the building he _definitely_ identifies as a brothel looks well-kempt.

He buys sweetbread from a woman at a stall and eats it while staring at the Red Keep rising in the distance. The glaze sticks to his fingers and he licks them clean. _What am I even doing?_ _Do I plan to tell Jon I_ think _I love him? Do I throw myself at him and see where it goes?_

All three of those things require actually _getting_ to Jon without getting thrown into a cell. Maybe it's a lifetime of very few choices, but Satin should've considered this plan further along that he did. _What do I do when I run out of money?_

Satin thinks of the brothel he passed a few streets back, and shakes his head. _I've made it this long without turning to that._

He buys a night at an inn that doesn't look _too_ suspect. The room is private, and costs more, but Satin _hates_ sharing a room with men he doesn't know. The brothel, prison, the Night's Watch--it ends one way. 

The next morning, he starts asking people for information. A City Watch officer reacts well to the slightest compliment, and Satin goes from there.

It only takes a few hours for Satin to notice a girl with the same gray eyes as Jon watching him from across the common room.

* * *

Jon finds him, and they have a very stilted and awkward reunion. The girl, who Satin learns in Jon's sister Arya, stares at them through the entire conversation. Jon’s stumbling belies his nervousness.

Satin didn't exactly prepare for this, either.

He distracts himself by getting down on the floor and hugging Ghost around the neck. "I missed you, too," he whispers into the direwolf's white fur. "You don't look a day older."

Jon does, though--there's a bit less boyish to him, now. He'd been barely a man when they met, and now he was.

It's in his eyes, mostly, a wariness that war and death and making hard choices gives to a man. He also looks like he's been eating well and not half-freezing to death. He kept his beard, which amuses Satin for some reason. It looks better kept, now, and Satin wonders if his own diligence to his appearance rubbed off on Jon even after they parted.

He's still very, _very_ handsome. Handsome enough that Satin keeps his face hidden in Ghost's fur until he composes himself. 

Satin calls him "my lord," and Jon says they're past that.

"You're welcome in the Keep," Jon tells him, "We've more rooms than people at this point."

"It's dreadful and boring," Arya agrees.

Even though Satin paid for his room for another night, and the innkeep surely won't refund it, he runs to his room and grabs his meager belongings.

_If I don't get in with Jon, it will never happen._

He doesn't know what to do when he gets there, either, but at least he's in Jon's presence.

"Did your mother really name you Satin?" Arya asks as they wind their way back to the Red Keep.

"Yes."

Arya narrows her eyes, "That doesn't sound like a name."

"It doesn't," Satin agrees.

"Do you have siblings?"

Satin shakes his head, "None that I know of. Although, it's possible."

 _Whoever_ his father had been, if he frequented brothels, he'd probably gotten more than one woman with child. His mother hadn't even known which man it might be. It didn't matter--a man like that would take no responsibility for the consequences of bedding a whore.

Likely, he never even knew. 

Satin hadn't much to be glad about in his life, but he _probably_ hadn't fathered a bunch of bastards. Women visit brothels much less, and are more likely to be careful.

"I was imagining there were several of you, all with fabric names," Arya explains. 

Satin chuckles, "I'm sorry to disappoint."

She grins wolfishly, "Not at all. Jon's swooning at the mere mention of your odd name _more_ than made up for it."

Jon turns to glare at Arya, but she just laughs.

* * *

In Jon’s chambers, they awkwardly catch up, and Satin _almost_ starts laughing when Jon vaguely asks if he fucked his employer. He tells Jon that he doesn't make a habit of letting his employers bed him.

"That's...good,” Jon replies, “You shouldn’t just...do that.”

The vagueness, the stuffy delivery--he sounds so like _Jon_ that Satin's nerves melt like snow under the summer sun. Satin was afraid he'd arrive to find a stranger, that Jon Snow was a Targaryen and further from him than ever; a height he couldn't scale.

"I haven't met many admirable men, and I've only ever chosen one for myself." Satin knows what he wants. He knows what Jon's confidence instilled in him--the agency to choose for himself.

Jon didn't bridge this gap the first time, and he won’t be able to do so now. He wouldn't be Jon Snow if he could.

Satin has always been _fine_ at this part, so he kisses Jon and hopes he won't be rebuked. Jon's beard tickles under his palms, familiar in a way that Satin longs for. Far from a rebuke, Jon meets him with an enthusiasm that sends fire through his veins. 

They need to talk, but this is a conversation in its own right. For a brief moment, they're reading from the same page of the same book. Jon steps backward until he bumps into the wall beside the fireplace. Satin crowds against Jon, and it’s going well, _really_ well--at least until Jaime Lannister, the king of Westeros, bursts into Jon's room and clears his throat dramatically.

Honestly, Satin is so enraptured in the moment that the king could watch, and he’d probably go as far as Jon wanted. He doesn’t _love_ being watched, but he does love being close to Jon. If one requires the other, he can manage. He’s managed through much worse and enjoyed it much less.

Jon, on the other hand, looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

He doesn’t push Satin away, but every inch of visible skin turns the brightest red Satin has _ever_ seen. And, not to boast, but Satin has put Jon in some fairly compromising positions. He _almost_ continues out of sheer amusement, but relents, leaning against the wall next to Jon.

That Jon is mortified doesn't surprise Satin; he isn’t demonstrative. Although, Satin supposes they’ve never been in a position to be so. Satin respects Jon too much to think he’s the cause of the embarrassment. 

The way Jon is looking at the king _does_ surprise him--there’s desire there. _Ah._ Jon looks at him like that, or he did, once upon a time.

The king starts laughing, “You seem like you're having way more fun than can be found in any discussion of grain stores." 

Jon just blurts,"Probably." 

* * *

Ser Loras gives him a room, much nicer than the one at the inn. It's probably the nicest room Satin has ever been in that wasn't--

Well, the nicest room he's been in that's _his._

Someone comes by and offers to bring him food, too--they ask what he wants, which is quite novel. Whores don’t get menu choices and neither do stewards. Being waited on makes him feel like an imposter.

“Anything is fine,” Satin tells the servant, “It’s late, and I don’t want to be any trouble.”

What he ends up with feels like food for the road, but Satin sits on the bed and eats it with gusto. There’s _fruit_ , and Satin, even after over a year, is still not over the fact that he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life freezing and eating boiled turnips.

After, Satin stares at the ceiling and thinks about Jon’s obvious attraction to the king. King Jaime _is_ handsome. He and his twin Cersei were famed for their beauty, and for the rumor that they were lovers. Even older, Satin can see the appeal.

That, and even in Oldtown people talk about what a fine king Jaime Lannister is. 

It’s some comfort, Satin supposes, that Jon is interested in a man _other_ than him. It means that what was between them wasn’t just a product of the environment, that Jon’s attraction was genuine and not like the men who thought he was the closest they could get to a woman. 

_I can share._ If Jon wants both of them, Satin could oblige that. Sharing means he _has_ something that can be shared. _I won’t be possessive._

Jon deserves good things, and Satin decides he won’t impede that. He’s unsure if the king even notices Jon’s feelings, but Satin might be able help with that, too. After all, as charming as Satin finds Jon Snow, no one would make the mistake of calling him a master of seduction.

* * *

It’s nearly an entire day before Satin sees Jon again. 

He sleeps obscenely late the next morning because nothing precludes it. Then, he wanders around the Red Keep and gets terribly twisted around. A few flatteries, and the matronly woman who runs the kitchen gives him enough breakfast for three men. 

Satin eats _all_ of it. 

The only other person Satin knows in King’s Landing is Samwell Tarly. They’re not close, but Satin spent many an afternoon huddled over a desk copying things by the weak winter sunlight.

Sam knew Jon better than he did. Well, mayhaps not _better_ , but differently. Sam had already left for the Citadel when Jon was killed and brought back by the Red Priestess. Satin tries not to think about that too frequently--it invades his dreams, some nights.

The Maester’s chambers in a castle as large as the Red Keep are simple to locate. Sam looks as he did at Castle Black--a little older, but no less portly. 

“Jon told me you were here,” Sam clasps Satin’s hand.

“ _Oh,_ he did?”

Sam smirks, and it seems more devious than Satin thought him capable of, “I think you gave him a bit of an existential quandary.”

“A...what?”

“He’s been watching something from afar that he can’t have for a long, long time,” Sam explains, “Your presence might make him look in a better direction.”

Satin lowers his voice to a whisper, “Jon...desires the king.”

“Quite melodramatically, if I might say.”

“Does the king…?”

He shakes his head, “An age could pass, and King Jaime will _never_ notice Jon in that way.”

That should make Satin happy, but instead in rankles some part of him. _To not notice Jon?_ “But Jon is---”

_Everything._

How, exactly, had he convinced himself, laying in bed last night, that he could _share_?

“It’s no fault of Jon’s--” Sam starts, but just then, a child crashes through the door to the chamber and affixes himself to Sam’s leg.

“Hi!”

“Hello,” Satin looks down at the child, then back to Sam, “...Yours?”

Sam smiles, “In every way that matters.”

* * *

Sometimes, Satin says things he doesn't mean.

He'll agree to something before remembering that refusal is now part of his vocabulary. His _no_ holds as much weight as any man's. He might face consequences of refusing a drunken lecher in an Oldtown tavern, but he won't be forced anywhere without putting up a fight.

The other side is that when Satin wants, or needs, to please someone, he offers himself in ways he doesn't want. Suggestion was a powerful tool--offer an indecisive man something he _thinks_ he wants, a lesser pain Satin can suffer, and maybe that will be enough to satisfy.

It worked, frequently, because he knew how men thought.

Now, Satin does it without realizing. He offers Jon things _he_ doesn't want because it's something that might please Jon. Jon, who pours him wine and shows Satin courtesies _far_ above his station. Satin makes a joke because that's what he does when he's overwhelmed. It's how he processes his life.

Maybe Sam and Jon are right about the king's desire. Satin thinks most men can be persuaded with the right approach, but that's not what he offers Jon.

"We can pretend."

Satin can do that for Jon. He's been many things, and for the man who wanted him just to be Satin Flowers, he can be someone else for a night. It won't break him. 

He knows where admiration for a good man has brought him.

If Jon wants a whore, or a pet, Satin would give up his pride, just as he'd been willing to let Jon take him at Castle Black. Jon is everything he's never known, and Satin would go to great lengths to keep that. A little part of him, buried deep inside, expects Jon to accept his offer, to finally take the last thing that Satin is willing to give. 

Jon, subverter of _all_ of Satin's expectations of men, looks disgusted and angry in turn and says, "You're not my whore."

Satin wants to laugh _and_ cry. He wants to tell Jon that he's the only _good_ man in the Seven Kingdoms. He wants to tell Jon that he loves him for his indignation and the honor it shows. When Satin feels his _worst_ , his weakest, and he offers Jon something he doesn’t want to give, Jon will decline.

"I could use a friend," Jon tells him.

"I'll be anything you ask."

Jon remembers things Satin learned he liked when given the space to think about his own pleasure. He remembers every instruction Satin had ever given and is somehow _better_ than the last time they were together. By the end, Satin is in such good humor that he's teasing Jon again, ever amused by the continued innocence of Jon's reactions. 

Eventually, Satin, filled with nerves, reveals the truth; “And...I might’ve been lying about the king. Not the handsome part-- don’t roll your eyes--but the sharing part. I mean, if it’s just once or twice--”

 _That's_ not a lie. Satin could share Jon for a night or two. It wasn't the same as giving him up, or being asked to be someone else. 

Jon, of course, smiles at Satin and politely declines.


	4. Satin IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon pushes himself up on his elbows enough to look at Satin. “I didn’t want you to endanger yourself by coming with me.”
> 
> Suddenly, Satin can’t handle the weight of Jon’s expression or his words; he shuts his eyes and hides his face against Jon. “I thought that, with them, you might not need--”
> 
>  _Me._ He fears being discarded, but the fear doesn’t come from anything Jon’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments last week!
> 
> All the stuff in this chapter takes place during and between Jon III and Brienne III.

Satin wears Jon out.

Or, maybe it's more accurate that they wear one another out. 

Jon sleeps the peaceful slumber of someone who's sated. There's something about it that amuses Satin--like Jon expended too much of his energy and needs to recuperate. It's not the selfish sleep of man who took his pleasure and left his partner dissatisfied, either.

Satin doesn't sleep--a habit borne of too long spent not feeling safe. He's happy to watch Jon. The fire was never banked with too much wood, and the tapers have burned low enough the moon is Satin's only light. It's not the first vigil he's kept; he wonders if Jon would find it unsettling if he realized.

This time, Satin traces a fingertip over the one of scars from the knife wounds. He counted them, one night, each a betrayal. He couldn't have prevented it--Jon was already dead by the time Satin even knew the mutiny had occurred. 

Even if he _was_ there, Satin wasn’t strong enough to stop it. Jon bled to death in the snow surrounded by people he thought were loyal.

_How painful that must have been._

Jon protected him, but Satin couldn’t protect Jon.

He curls into a ball and rests his cheek on Jon’s chest so he can look up at him. It must be the odd hour of the morning, but Satin feels terribly overwhelmed by the fact a day ago he hadn’t seen Jon in nearly two years, and now he’s watching Jon sleep. He journeyed here, hoping to talk, hoping for _something_. He touches the scar closest to him, feels the raised skin.

It’s not Satin’s intent, but the contact wakes Jon up.

“Satin?” Jon raises his head, not really sitting up.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It's no matter," Jon doesn't sound quite awake, "Are you well?"

"Yes, I--" he halts, unsure of how honest to be, "I was thinking about when you...died."

"Oh."

"I couldn't save you," Satin whispers.

"You didn’t need to,” Jon answers, “It would’ve just gotten you killed, too.”

 _With no prophecy to save me._ The Red Priestess wouldn’t waste her powers on someone such as Satin. The thought that Jon really, truly _died_ sends a shiver through him. It’s a different, deeper cold than the biting chill at the Wall. No fire or furs will combat it.

“If I was stronger--”

“Satin,” Jon interrupts. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

It’s not true, but Satin likes to hear it.

“I wish I’d gone with you to Winterfell,” he admits. “I was happy for you, that you had your family back and could return home.”

“They’re not my true siblings, but they’re my family, and I _am_ glad they’re--” Jon pushes himself up on his elbows enough to look at Satin. “I didn’t want you to endanger yourself by coming with me.”

Suddenly, Satin can’t handle the weight of Jon’s expression or his words; he shuts his eyes and hides his face against Jon. “I thought that, with them, you might not need--”

 _Me._ He fears being discarded, but the fear doesn’t come from anything Jon’s done.

Jon sits up fully, which dislodges Satin enough that he sits, too. Jon wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. He’s _warm_ and very much alive; it helps with the chill. 

“I need you,” Jon whispers, “You were far away and _safe_ , but I missed your company, and I thought of you.”

“I missed yours, too.”

For now, it’s enough.

* * *

Jon definitely needs _someone_.

Satin isn’t convinced that it has to be him, but filling the role comes naturally. As Hand of the King, Jon is much as he was at Castle Black--he shoulders more than he ought, and never asks for assistance with what he deems is his responsibility. He stays up too late, and his personal space looks a bit like a tornado whipped through it.

It’s familiar and comforting because time didn’t change Jon Snow.

His duties as a steward were never something he resented. Satin only worried he was poor at the tasks Jon required of him, and that Jon’s choice in him was misguided or stemmed from sympathy.

Or worse, pity.

Jon never pitied him, and time apart didn’t change that.

Satin busies himself. It’s not hard--he fetches Jon’s meals and his laundry. He runs errands and asks Sam if he has any need of help.

“We’re all doing the work of three men, so please.”

There’s always a need for capable hands. Satin isn’t a warrior, and no one would call upon him to be a stonemason of a carpenter, but he can do the little tasks that others find demeaning or are easily overlooked.

Satin knows how it feels to be demeaned, and running errands and unpacking crates isn’t a source of it. Lending help where it's needed is the type of honest work Satin could do for the remainder of his days. 

He’ll need to talk to someone about wages, eventually; he’s a bit penniless, and charming his way into free meals won’t work forever.

Jon helps him navigate his way back to his borrowed room on his third night in the castle. His satchel, still mostly packed, sits on the bed with his spare shirts spilling out of it. Jon stares at it for a long moment in silence.

“That’s really all I own,” Satin jokes, “If I lose that, I’ll just have to be naked all the time.” He shrugs nonchalantly at the end, just so see Jon’s reaction.

Jon clears his throat a bit too dramatically to be natural, and Satin starts laughing.

“It’d be no trouble,” Jon says, “if you wanted to room with me.”

“There’s steward quarters off your solar,” Satin replies, “I found them yesterday.”

 _It would be just like at Castle Black._ Satin wouldn’t mind that--he could be close to Jon, but there’d be a proper explanation for the closeness. There’s no oath barring Jon from taking a wife or a lover, but station and gender limit what they can be to one another. The rumors won’t be any better here than they were at Castle Black.

Well, mayhaps a _bit_ better--no one here knows Satin’s past. They won’t assume he fucked his way into the Red Keep. Satin being a whore made the rumors exist; _actually_ being with Jon didn’t worsen them. 

The duty of his station could make for a fitting cover here.

“Jon?” He’s still not _quite_ used to the way Jon’s name sounds. It was fine sighed into Jon’s ear in the darkness, but Satin stumbles over it in normal conversation. “The steward quarters are suitable, I’m sure--”

Jon, who’d been staring at his satchel on the bed, rounds on Satin and kisses him. There’s an assertiveness behind the gesture Satin is unused to. He’s not timid or shy, but Jon isn’t one to push. Satin’s back thumps against the closed door, and Jon’s hand, buried in his hair, stops his head from thwacking against the wood.

_Considerate, as usual._

Satin doesn’t mind this side of Jon--if he wants to be aggressive, Satin will happily be pushed against a door. Jon has a commanding presence, and there’s something thrilling about seeing it here. Satin yields, drinking in the thrill of the fact that Jon Snow wants _him._

“Did you travel halfway across Westeros to sleep in a steward’s quarters?”

Jon’s question hits Satin _hard;_ Satin was ill-equipped to block when Jon swung a sword at him, and he’s no better, now.

“I travelled halfway across Westeros for you.”

Jon freezes. _Does he not believe me?_ Satin doesn’t know another way to show Jon his intentions other than saying the word _love_ aloud; he’s not ready for that.

“I’d know your preference then, Satin.”

 _Whatever you want._ Jon won’t want that answer.

“I’d like to be with you.” 

* * *

Satin in Jon’s room isn’t a ruse. 

He doesn’t put Satin’s belongings in the small, adjoining chambers. He doesn’t summon linens for the bare bed there, either. He doesn’t demand Satin vanish at dawn or stay hidden when someone, even the king, calls upon him.

He makes space for Satin’s meager possessions amongst his own similarly few items. Jon's things are finely-made, but he only has what he needs. Satin recognizes some of them--a cloak, a pair of boots, but most of the items are new. Satin's things look quite poor next to his, but Jon's never noticed anything like that. 

Jon moves his pillow to one side of the bed. It doesn't look like anything special, but it's intimate and _strange_ and feels meaningful. The gesture is an entire conversation; it's Jon being welcoming. No one has _ever_ made space for Satin.

The bed is _comfortable,_ too. If Satin was born a wealthy lord, _this_ is where he would spend his gold. Forget rich foods and wine, he would never sleep on the ground, or on straw or hay, ever again. Satin wants to sleep in a fine bed, not just invited or forced into one.

Jon is who he really wants, though, and Satin would sleep on the ground to be close to Jon. He's comfortable enough to sleep in Jon's company--Jon won't hurt him and would stop anyone who tried. It's a trust Satin has never felt before.

The first morning, an ingrained sense of duty wakes Satin when Jon stirs. A tiny bit of panic floods him--a steward should be up first, to ready his lord for the day.

Jon is an early riser, and Satin, if left to his own devices, isn't.

"Satin," Jon whispers when Satin sits up, startled into wakefulness. 

"I'm sorry--I should--"

"...Go back to sleep. Not everyone has to suffer rising with the sun." Jon is smiling slightly. 

"Do you need--?"

Jon shakes his head, "I'm fine."

Satin trusts Jon's assessment easily, and collapses back into the bed. Ghost must not prefer mornings, either, because he often takes Jon's place.

“I missed you,” Satin tells Ghost one morning after Jon leaves. He scratches Ghost behind his ears after the direwolf settles into the mattress. “You’re a good bedmate, too."

He falls back asleep easily.

Satin busies himself during the day. He'll need something more permanent to occupy his time, but there's enough to explore in the Keep, and he continues to help Sam in the maester's chambers.

By late afternoon, Satin has usually exhausted himself and returns to Jon's chambers. 

Jon hasn't learned to mask his desire any better than when they were last lovers. Satin can think of a dozen ways to seduce someone, and Jon doesn't require _any_ of them. There's no innuendo, no coy glances or submission. All he has to do for Jon to want him is be present.

Once or twice, just to amuse himself, Satin drapes himself on the bed as though he’s waiting for Jon to find him. 

It always, _always_ works.

* * *

Satin meets Brienne of Tarth.

 _That’s who King Jaime loves._ She’s Jon’s competition, if Satin chose to look at the situation that way. In a way, she’s _his_ competition, too. Brienne loves the king, dearly, and as Satin hears their shared history, he understands the tenure of their relationship and agrees with Jon’s assessment that nothing could _ever_ come between them.

The only envy Satin feels is that Brienne has someone who loves her that much.

Then, Jon enters his solar, scolds Satin for thinking poorly of himself and _kisses_ him before Brienne of Tarth’s embarrassed gaze. It’s in part to stop Satin from revealing his feelings, but clapping his hand over Satin’s mouth or elbowing him in the ribs would work just as well.

"Satin, please stop," Jon sounds _quite_ frazzled.

Petulant, Satin huffs, “You're no fun."

“So, I’ve been told.”

Jon is smiling; Satin feels a _touch_ less envious of Brienne’s story.

Satin leaves them to their business, but before he goes, he says, “Ser Brienne, I’d enjoy your company again, if it suits you.”

She reddens, just a bit, and looks surprised, but nods. Brienne reminds him a bit of Jon--a stalwart, calming presence. She’s _much_ more reticent, but she’s a fine listener, and she doesn’t judge him. Like him, she’s a stranger to the Red Keep. Over the next week, he calls on her twice, and it’s quite freeing to have another person who feels like an outsider.

“Can I confide in you?” Satin asks her the third span of time they spend in one another’s company. 

Brienne looks surprised, but she nods solemnly, “Of course.”

“It’s about Jon,” Satin says, “Well, it’s more about me, I suppose.”

She smiles, “I’m listening.”

The feeling sharing Jon’s bed gives him is hard to explain. Satin expected it to be as it was at the Wall, and while it’s logistically similar, it’s _nothing_ alike.

“When I was...younger,” he decides to spare Brienne just _how_ young, “I used to dream that someone _kind_ would show up at the brothel and take me away. I imagined how nice that life would be.”

“I think we all dream of being rescued at some point.”

 _I wonder what Brienne of Tarth dreams of._ Maybe of a man who looks at her and sees a woman _and_ a knight. 

“I’ve been thinking about the dream, and what I thought it meant.”

“And?”

“That I’d be _special_ ,” Satin answers, “but I wasn’t imagining that. I dreamed of being someone’s pet. I thought, if I could please one person enough, he'd take me somewhere else and protect me. In exchange, I’d do whatever he asked.”

“A _good_ person won't possess you.”

“I couldn’t even imagine that. I’d be their ornament--a bauble to warm their bed until they tired of me." Satin feels sad at how he used to think of himself. "I’d grow too old, or too familiar, and they’d cast me out and seek another.”

"I thought I could do my duty if the man wasn't cruel. He wouldn't love me, or want me, but it'd be _enough."_

“It’s not enough,” Satin reaches out and takes Brienne's hands. They're larger than his and covered in calluses. "You deserve more. No, you _have_ more."

 _And so do I._ It's good, and new, to think about what he might deserve.

Brienne smiles fully, and it's quite transformative. "I've thought a lot over the last few years about what I deserve, and what I wouldn't force myself to settle for.”

Jon hadn’t found him and taken him away; he’d found him and opened a door for Satin to walk through. Jon handed him a key, but Satin emancipated himself. He chose to come to King’s Landing, and he’ll choose to remain. 

"Ser Brienne,” Satin smiles back at her, “I think we can do better than just settling.”


	5. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How will it go?”
> 
> He lets out a _hmmm_ and tilts his head. “You lead, and I’ll follow.” Jon must look taken aback because Satin continues, “Trust me.”
> 
> “You’re not speaking of me being Hand or Lord Commander, are you?”
> 
> Satin’s answer is a knowing smirk, “No, I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, what a CRAZY week it's been!
> 
> Enjoy some smut where Jon tops for the first time! It won't help your coronavirus worry, but it's a distraction.
> 
> This takes place sometime before Jon's last chapter in _Love is the Death of Duty_ , but after the previous chapter of this fic.

“So,” Satin says one afternoon, “Tell me what you like about the king.”

Jon freezes--a blob of ink drips onto the parchment where he’d been scribbling notes. He looks up at Satin, who’s on his back on the bed, head hanging over the edge so he’s looking at Jon upside down. His hair spills halfway to the floor.

“He’s a good king,” Jon answers. It’s _not_ the answer Satin is looking for.

Satin huffs, “That’s _not_ what I’m asking about.”

“I know.”

“I can _see_ that he’s a good king,” Satin rolls over onto his stomach and rests his chin in his hand. He looks guileless; it’s a lie. “Tell me more. When did it start? What do you fantasize about?”

“I don’t--”

“...Fantasize?” Satin finishes, smiling. “Liar. _Everyone_ daydreams, even whores.”

This seems like a pointless exercise. What good is there in unearthing his childish daydreams, or the _less_ childish ones he has now? 

“Then what do _you_ think about?” Jon counters. Things are new between them--well, they _aren’t_ , but this calmness is. Jon isn’t sure how to _talk_ to Satin.

“I’ll tell you after,” his tone carries a hint of promise.

Jon puts the quill back in its stand, hoping that no one except Satin will ever find out _this_ is how the Hand of the King spent the afternoon. Satin is the model of discretion, though. 

Jon rises from the chair and sits at the edge of the bed. “When I was a boy,” Jon starts, “King Jaime came to Winterfell with King Robert and his family.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen; it was a few months before I joined the Night’s Watch.” Satin is watching him expectantly. “I remember thinking he looked like a king. My brothers noticed my staring and asked if I wanted to go get a kiss from the Kingslayer.”

Satin chuckles, “Well, did you want to?”

The memory makes Jon’s face heat up. He’d been so childishly earnest in his assessment of Jaime. “I...didn’t think of it that way at the time, but mayhaps? It sounded like something my sister Sansa would want, not me. She liked knights from songs and such.”

“And boys _don’t_ like knights from songs,” Satin doesn’t keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “Were there girls before?”

“A whore, once, bought for me, but I couldn’t do it.”

If the information bothers Satin, it doesn’t show, “Were you not interested?”

“That’s...not it.” Jon can’t remember the girl’s face, only that she was pretty. Theon had chosen her and had surely bought her before. “I thought ‘what if she gets with child?’ The babe would be a bastard, and I didn’t want to be part of making one.”

“Noble, even then,” Satin pats him on the knee and leaves his hand there after. “Many bastards are made that way, myself included.” 

“Sometimes, people told me my mother was a whore, but I couldn’t imagine Father with _anyone_ other than Lady Catelyn.’ Jon shuts his eyes, “In the end, Ned Stark wasn’t my father at all.”

“If there were more men like you, there’d be less children like me.” 

Satin doesn’t talk much about his past, and Jon doesn’t ask. Questions bubble forth in his mind; instead, Jon decides to offer another piece of himself. 

“When I saw Jaime again, at Winterfell, I better understood what my feelings meant.” Jon wondered if he was betraying Bran, or his family, by feeling what he was feeling, or by thinking Jaime could lead Westeros in the direction it needed to go. “Then, when he asked me to be his Hand, I thought ‘I could follow him.’”

“And that maybe he’d take you to bed?”

 _That’s a dangerous line of thought_. Jon tries not to follow it because it led to a variety of frustrations. Frustration that he could satisfy with his hand, but after enough of that he started to think the problem was bigger than Jaime--the problem was that Jon was _lonely._

“I _never_ thought that would happen.”

Satin’s hand on his knee creeps upward to his thigh. When Jon tries to make eye contact, Satin looks away, innocent. “But if it _did_?”

“It wouldn’t.”

“How would it go?”

“It wouldn’t,” Jon repeats. Then, unbidden, he finds himself speaking again, spilling dark thoughts that should never see the daylight. The words come out surly, though. “I suppose...it would be like how it is with you.”

Satin laughs, nearly _giggles_ , and Jon’s glad someone is entertained. “And how is that, my lord?”

The _my lord_ at the end is a tease. It takes Jon a long, long moment to formulate his thoughts. “I’d want him to be...assertive. Men follow him; _I_ follow him.”

“Jon,” Satin rolls over and sits up on the bed. He pauses after Jon’s name, like he needs permission. Jon hopes it will pass, but he doesn’t comment on it. “ _You_ lead men. I follow you.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” Suddenly, they’re talking about two things at once. “And I don’t seem to, not here.”

Here, experience governs who leads, and the mantle falls on Satin. Jon doesn’t mind it; power makes him uneasy, which is why he gives it away.

“I don’t mean to dash your fantasy,” Satin puts a hand on his shoulder, “But I’m not certain the king would do what you seek.”

“I-- _what?’_

“You’d be the experienced one.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“And,” Satin continues, smiling, “I don’t think the king likes to lead, either. If you peeked into their bedroom, I _bet_ Ser Brienne holds the reins.”

Jon nearly asks _how_ Satin can tell, but he already knows how Satin can tell. “I..never considered that.”

“I’ve seen men like that.” Satin always chooses his language carefully--Jon hasn’t ascertained whose benefit it’s for. “They command, but behind closed doors, they want…” Satin trails off.

“...Like me?” Jon can see it--both Jaime and he passing power and authority back and forth, looking for a place to discard the weight of it. When Satin kisses him, Jon’s mind shuts off, and that’s a respite he discovered long ago at Castle Black.

“No,” Satin kisses him, “You just think too much.”

More than one person in his life had accused Jon of being sullen, but Satin _almost_ makes it sound like a compliment. “You just ruined my entire fantasy.”

“We’ll make a new one.” 

Jon never considered himself very imaginative, but Satin makes up for it. He’s very adept at making Jon’s stomach drop with a glance or a phrase. Jon hates the context Satin learned it in, but likes it being used on him. 

“How will it go?”

He lets out a _hmmm_ and tilts his head. “You lead, and I’ll follow.” Jon must look taken aback because Satin continues, “Trust me.”

“You’re not speaking of me being Hand or Lord Commander, are you?”

Satin’s answer is a knowing smirk, “No, I’m not.”

Jon can _see_ it, better and more vividly than any of his other imagined scenarios. For all his hero worship, both as a youth and now, Jaime remains an abstraction to him. Satin, though--Satin is tangible before him; their faces have mere inches separating them. Jon can see his eyelashes, the soft curve of his lips as he smiles. Satin engages _all_ of his senses. 

Doing to Satin what Satin does to him, opening him up and _taking_ him, making Satin feel the way he feels--

“If you’re certain.” The words come out rushed and breathless.

“A lack of tenderness or technique won’t be how I meet my end.” Satin’s still jesting, as is his way, but Jon _hates_ what those words mean. 

How many people used Satin to take their pleasure with no thought to him? Jon wants to feel cared for; does Satin know he should want that, too? Or does he only think outwardly because no one thought about him? 

_Am I doing what others did? People I swore to be better than. People Satin_ tells _me I’m better than._

"Is that what you desire?"

Satin comes to him, straddles Jon on the bed and pulls himself close. Jon can _feel_ the proof of Satin's interest, what he hasn't said with words--it's not enough, even as Jon reacts, feels the need simmering in his blood.

He winds his arms around Jon's neck; Satin is still smiling and sounds coy when he replies, "Is that what _you_ want?"

_Yes._

But the coyness doesn't have the impact Satin hopes. It dampens the heat, and Jon snaps at him, "Don't be coy and _answer_ _me_." 

Honesty compelled by command, Satin freezes. "Jon," he starts, "I'm a whore." The sentence is a spectrum, opening with the most intimate, Jon’s name, and ending with the least. 

Jon wants to object, to tell Satin he isn't, that he hasn't been. It won't help, though. He can't change what Satin believes about himself; he can't change the truth about the past. Satin _was_ a whore. Jon _is_ a Targaryen--they’re facts, even if Jon doesn’t like them. 

So, he says what he _hopes_ is the next right thing, "But you've _never_ been mine."

Satin still isn't moving, only his eyes widen in surprise. " _Yes_ , then. I think you’ll do well; I think you’ll _like_ it."

"Why haven't you asked before now?"

"It wasn't how you needed things to be between us."

This time, when Satin grinds his cock against him, nothing hinders Jon's reaction. Satin kisses him until Jon's limbs feel like jelly and every movement reverberates through him. Jon absorbs the shock, like a blade smashing against a shield. There's a hitch in Satin's breathing when Jon slides a hand down his back to ensure there's no space between him. 

Satin will be content with kissing for a long, long time. Jon guesses it's an intimacy he's never been afforded, so he craves it. Jon likes it, too, the unhurried slide of mouths meeting, bodies pressed together through fabric, stockpiling reactions for later. Satin's hands are in his hair, and when Jon needs to breath, Satin quests elsewhere, sucks a bruise onto Jon's neck or watches Jon's reactions to the movement between them.

The moment gives Jon time to build an image--Satin, laid out of the bed, waiting to be taken. Satin as he is now, only bare, riding him.

Clothes are unbearable, the friction they manifest won't satisfy him now. He starts tugging--lacings on a shirt undone, skin revealed. Satin's shirt ends up across the room, and Jon's ends up on the floor. Jon stares at him--Satin's raven curls are mussed, lips kiss-swollen, a flush of arousal on his skin. 

_How many times did I think him pretty before I knew what it meant?_

There's an almost feminine delicateness to Satin. Jon isn't tall or broad, but Satin is of a slighter build yet. He fits, gloriously, in Jon's lap. He touches Satin's chest, traces a path downward, watching him gasp when Jon ghosts a hand over his nipples. Satin wriggles against him, and Jon remembers noticing his soft skin and lithe form back at the Wall.

 _What a blind fool I was._ The thought makes him chuckle, and Satin stills.

"What's funny?"

"The way I thought of you when we were at Castle Black," Jon answers. "Pretty. _Lithe._ Lithe is a sexual word--no one uses it in _any_ other context."

Satin blushes at the compliment paid, "I thought you were handsome, too."

“I thought you were clever and a fast learner,” Jon doesn’t want him to think it was just physical. “I envied how quickly you made friends.”

“You’re a good man,” Satin replies, “I was happy to serve under you.”

It's easy to free Satin's cock from his pants, and even easier for Satin to return the gesture. Satin wraps his hand around both of them and slides upward. The softness of his hand and the feeling of them skin-to-skin is better than any friction created by clothes. 

After a moment, Satin drops his forehead to Jon's shoulder and says, breathless, "Do you want to linger here?"

"I feel like I'm halfway there already.”

"Good."

Standing, Satin toes off his boots and finishes the half-done job of his pants. Jon rises, and Satin repeats the gesture with urgency. They leave their clothes in a heap on the floor. The oil lives in Jon's bedside table, so Satin gets it and hands it to Jon.

"You're certain?"

Satin grins at him, "Would begging convince you?"

"Would you do so if you didn't mean it?"

"Not for you."

His earnest tone softens Jon's nerves. Satin kneels on the bed and looks back. His hair tumbles around his shoulders and there’s a soft expression on his face. The picture Satin makes, back arched and vulnerable, creates a wave of desire in Jon that nearly steals his breath. Satin smirks when he realizes Jon is staring.

The fact that he's going to need instructions dampens it a bit. He knows what Satin does to him, knows the momentary discomfort that gives way to a burst of pleasure. Jon doesn't notice technique in those moments, only that Satin is taking him out of himself and driving them both towards a goal. Satin knows when enough is enough, when to move on from his fingers.

Satin smiles at Jon's inaction, wriggles a bit, "I can do it myself. You can watch for next time."

 _That_ image will end things before they start--a sight for another day. "No, I will."

"You've been with a woman; it's the same, but more effort."

He remembers Ygritte, cackling in his ear, telling him he couldn't just stick it in. _What if it were you?_ _Would you want something just stuffed in there, all dry?_

Abstractly, Jon had said that he definitely wouldn’t prefer that; now, much _less_ abstractly, he knows that he wouldn’t. He’d touched Ygritte until she said it was enough, and, after a few times, he’d known without her telling him. 

That makes him a bit less wary.

Fingers coated, Jon slides one into Satin, who tenses at the intrusion, noticeable enough to Jon that he halts. Satin shifts, lets out a tiny puff of air; he sinks down a bit and lets his head touch the bed. Experimentally, Jon _slides_ , and Satin grabs a handful of bed linens.

“Satin?”

“I’m fine,” he nods, voice muffled. Jon moves his hand again, and feels Satin relax around him. “No one’s done this since…” 

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. 

“T-tell me when.”

 _Two_. Satin usually uses two fingers. _Three, once_. _That_ made Jon feel like he was going to die. A moment passes; Satin writhes against his hand, pushing back against him, seeking more. Jon leans over him, kisses his back where it’s arched off the bed; Satin’s skin tastes like sweat.

Satin glances back at him, “ _More_.” He sounds as desperate for it as Jon feels, so Jon obliges. He’s rewarded with a moan that will stay with him for days to come--Jon’s certain he’s _never_ made a sound like that. Satin says his name, next, babbles it in time with the movement of Jon’s fingers.

“E-enough,” Satin gasps after a while, “I want your cock.”

Jon _likes_ that--wants Satin to start more sentences with “I want.” More dragons could burst forth from the clouds, and Jon would still think of nothing but Satin on the bed before him.

“Jon,” he speaks again, “N-not like this. I want--”

There’s the phrase again. Jon’s answer is to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for Satin to finish the sentence or to _show_ him. When Satin straddles him again, Jon understands.

He puts a hand on Satin’s hip to steady him.

Satin nods, doesn’t break eye contact with Jon as he sinks, and they come together. Jon _watches_ , searches Satin’s expression for any sign of discomfort. The overwhelmed expression on Satin’s face dissipates, and Jon finds it’s transferred to him. There’s so _much_ Satin--around him and above him and heat _everywhere_. The urge to move is the most compelling force he’s ever felt, but Jon rests his hands on Satin’s thighs and doesn’t give in.

“You did _so_ good,” Satin’s eyes flutter shut, and he puts his arms around Jon’s neck again. “I haven’t wanted anyone to do this for a long time.”

“It’s an honor,” he blurts, realizing how ridiculous that sounds, “that you trust me.”

Satin laughs, too, and it makes him move. When the laughter stops, Satin keeps rocking against him, pace increasing in increments. Jon finds his thoughts pleasantly dulled, just as they are when their positions are reversed. Satin’s heat burns everything away, leaving Jon propelled by nothing but raw sensation. 

“An honor,” Satin repeats, hot in Jon’s ear, “do you mean that?”

Jon can barely formulate a thought with Satin’s motions on top of him, but the words feel important, so he tries. “I do; I want to feel earned.”

No answer pours forth from Satin except Jon’s name. Then, Satin kisses him as Jon grabs his hips and picks up the movement himself. He has none of the fluidity of Satin’s movements, only a jerking cadence. It won’t be enough, so Jon reaches between them and takes Satin’s cock in his hand and makes a mess between them. Jon follows suit, the pleasure white-hot and blinding as Satin tightens his thighs around him.

They cling to each other, mess be damned.

“See,” Satin speaks up once his breathing evens out, “I told you it would be good.”

Jon doesn’t think _good_ touches it; he doesn’t know a word that will even get onto the same plane as what he’s feeling right now.

“That’s,” Jon knows whatever follows will be foolish, “Do you like this better?”

“No,” Satin laughs, “Both have their merits.”

Satin climbs off him and collapses on the bed next to him, eyes closed. Jon feels wobbly-legged, but he manages to navigate off the bed enough to fetch a wet cloth. Satin’s eyes fly open when Jon uses the cloth to wipe him clean. He starts with his stomach, the moves between his thighs.

“You don’t have to--”

“I want to.”

It’s a hack job--both of them will need a bath later. Satin’s gaze follows Jon, even as he rises to deposit the cloth where it came from. When Jon returns to the bed, he lifts the blankets and beckons Satin to join him.

There’s a moment where Satin freezes, but he joins Jon under the covers. As he often does, Satin faces inward, looking at him.

“Jon,” Satin sounds out-of-sorts, “I was...young, _really_ young, the first time someone bought me." _Something_ must show on his face because Satin smacks him in the arm.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says fruitlessly.

"I don't need pity; I knew it was coming."

"You don't have to talk about it."

“I know,” Satin replies, “I want to. I was fed and boarded, and I learned to read some. If someone was too...much, they got thrown out. Usually. There's much, much worse…"

"That doesn't make it right."

Comforting Satin is the first thing that occurs to him. Satin is close enough he could easily reach out, but he doesn't move. _Is comfort pity?_ Casual affection still feels strange to Jon, so he does what Satin usually does--takes his hand under the blanket. Satin gives him the same wide-eyed look as before, like what Jon is doing never occurred to him. He comes when Jon tugs him closer, tucking his head against Jon's shoulder when he moves onto his back. Satin throws an arm and a leg over him, burrowing closer. 

Jon is too tired for anything more, but the intimate, unassuming nature of the contact is welcome.

"I...don't miss the Night's Watch.”

"Is being Hand better?"

"Honestly, no," Jon replies, "But it's good work, and I can see the fruits of it."

"I liked being your steward," Satin whispers, "The Wall is usually the less awful of two choices. It got me out of Oldtown, and celibacy didn't seem like punishment."

“You...didn’t mind the oaths?”

Satin shakes his head against Jon’s shoulder, “It meant I couldn’t be what I’d been before. No one could make me, and no one would ask. I was relieved.”

"But the first time we were together, _you_ approached _me_ ," Jon must sound confused because Satin is laughing while he continues, "I didn't even understand what I was feeling. I would've _never_ thought to--"

A kiss shuts Jon up, but Satin's head is back on his shoulder before he can react. 

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Satin sounds happier than Jon has ever heard, “Because I chose to.”


	6. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a terrible feeling from the moment he knocks on Sansa's chamber door that the upcoming conversation is going to be mortifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really enjoyable trying to write a discussion about sexuality without the characters having the modern language. That, and Sansa and Margaery being gal pals.

Jon has a terrible feeling from the moment he knocks on Sansa's chamber door that the upcoming conversation is going to be mortifying. He could come up with some matters of state quickly--some export from the North that they needed. The reverse is more likely, though, unless King's Landing has need for snow.

That happened, once. Jon hadn't been here to see it, but suffice to say the city's infrastructure wasn't built for it. 

_No,_ Jon thinks, _I need her counsel; there is no else to ask_. Sansa was a wonderful secret keeper; Jaime will never hear of this conversation even though his advice inspired it.

The door opens on its creaking hinges--another item on the endless list of things that need fixed. He'll forget, and that door will creak five years from now. Jon knows, now, that he’ll be here five years from now to complain about it again.

"Jon," Sansa smiles, seemingly happy to receive him, "Is this visit related to the ruling of our respective kingdoms?"

Awkwardly, Jon replies, "Somewhat?"

"Come in, then."

"Is Margaery here?"

"She's with Ser Loras, I believe," Sansa shakes her head, “Have you need of her as well?”

“No.”

“Ah, is this conversation a secret?” There’s a conspiratorial hint in Sansa’s voice.

He can’t help but scowl, “Not a secret, but discretion might be appreciated.”

Sansa nods and takes Jon by the elbow. When she chooses a chair, Jon sits beside her, even though it’s a tight fit, like how two children might crowd together to share a secret between them. Jon almost changes his mind, but Sansa’s holding his hand now, and he can’t run away from that.

“This isn’t a proper conversation,” Jon begins, “but I wanted to inquire about your relationship with Margaery.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise; Sansa looks _so much_ like Catelyn, only she looks at him much more fondly. “Have you come to protect me?”

Jon smiles, “You always have my protection, Sansa, but you don’t need it.” Everyone in the North will rise to her defense, as loyal as they ever were to Ned Stark. “This is a...personal query.”

“Are you asking after my virtue?”

“I’d never--”

“For my worth when I finally wed and become an accessory to my lord husband, king in the North?” Sansa’s tone is less congenial now.

“You’d never wed a man who wouldn’t let you rule.”

“No,” Sansa replies, shaking her head, “I’ll never wed a man, even one who claims he’d let me rule. I will sit alone on my throne until the end of my days before I give a man power over me again.”

“You’re not alone, though, are you?” Jon squeezes her hand.

Sansa graces him with the smallest smile, “I’m not, but it might as well be invisible. They call her my _friend_ \--my confidant. We share Mother and Father’s rooms and, even still, no one names the truth of it.”

Jon’s never felt what Sansa feels--at Castle Black, he _needed_ a secret. People assumed things about Satin and him _long_ before anything actually occurred. Jon did everything he could to keep Satin from bearing the brunt of the scorn because it was him they went after.

“I see it,” Jon tells her, “Margaery is your lover, and you’re happy with her. Others might not see it, or they might scorn you, but they’re not the queen. Does she mean to stay with you?”

Sansa nods, “She said she’d stay even if I sent her away. Margaery has been wed _thrice_ , and more men are like Joffrey and Littlefinger and Tywin Lannister than are like you, Jon.”

“I’m nothing exceptional.”

“Why do all the good men in Westeros say that?” Sansa laughs, “You and King Jaime. Father would’ve been so humble, too.”

“I think of him, though, when I’m making decisions.”

“As do I,” she says, “but I can see, now, he was too principled and too trusting sometimes.”

Jon agrees, as much as he doesn’t want to mar the memory of Ned Stark. Pragmatism was more important than ethics, sometimes, and expecting the best from others can have disastrous results.

“He’d want us to be better than him,” Jon is confident of that, “And I don’t think he’d care about Margaery as long as you were happy.”

“I’d like to think that,” Sansa agrees, “Jon, I jested, when I first arrived here, that we had something in common.”

“I said ‘ruling.’”

Sansa’s next laugh is a bit more robust, “I couldn’t tell if you were playing along or obtuse.”

“I’ve never been good at jests,” Jon laughs, too, “Sansa, is it always women, or is it just Margaery?”

“I--she’s the first, so I’m unsure,” she pauses. “When I was a girl, I dreamed of being the wife of a knight or a king, but those dreams were given to me by others. They were expectations. What I dreamed of was acceptance and companionship, but I only imagined it in the shape someone else told me it would come in.”

“And it doesn’t resemble what you thought it would,” Jon continues, “but you have it.”

Sansa puts her other hand over their joined ones, “Has it always been like this for you?

“When Jaime came to Winterfell when we were children, that was the first time I noticed it.”

“Even _I_ noticed him then,” Sansa blushes, “He was very handsome in his gold and red finery. He looked like he walked out of a story, at least until he spoke.”

“He’s even finer now, although sometimes silence is preferable.” Admonished, Jon adds, “...Please forget I said that.”

His embarrassment trumps Sansa’s so she starts laughing outright, “I wondered if it was Jaime. Does he know he’s the object of your affection?”

“No,” Jon shakes his head. “And it’s...passing, I think. I can only spend so much time looking longingly at someone who will never look back at me.”

“Does it pain you?”

“Yes, but I was resigned to never reveal it from the start.”“You deserve someone who’s attention isn’t elsewhere,” Sansa answers, “Satin Flowers was in your room for _one night_ , and already people were talking; they’re quite scandalized by his background, and they say you prefer men.”

 _Does_ he prefer men? 

Sansa’s words make Jon stop and consider. He wanted Ygritte from the moment she pressed herself against him on the cold ground north. After the first night, it was so good that he didn’t care what he’d sworn. She loved him, and Jon returned it, and the memories are warm ones.

The same was true of Satin. Jon would’ve _never_ initiated it, but he noticed Satin long before he even realized _why_ he was doing so. Satin made him understand what he felt for Jaime, too. Jon feels like a fool thinking back on all the adjectives he used to describe Satin when he first arrived at Castle Black. All those words were still true; Jon woke up next to Satin that morning and thought them all over again.

“I don’t appreciate being the subject of gossip.” He’s smiling, and Sansa will notice, but thinking of Satin engenders that reaction. He can even think of Ygritte, now, and smile. Thinking of Jaime hurts less, too--all three of them taught him about himself. 

“Think of it as a boon. One of my handmaidens found Margaery and me abed, and said _nothing._ They could find us mid-- _anyway,_ you’re _known.”_

“And I don’t think I prefer--I think it could be either. Is that odd?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I hear they consider that common elsewhere, like in Dorne. Margaery is like that, I think, but I’ve never outright asked. If you did, I’m sure she’d tell you.”

“How hard would she mock me during the process?”

“I suggest preparing yourself.”

* * *

“Preparing himself” turns out to be accepting a dinner invitation from Margaery. 

It’s not a solo invitation, thankfully--she invites _everyone_ , including Satin, who looks impossibly nervous the entire hour leading up to dinner. He frets in the mirror in Jon’s room, tying his hair back and letting it down again and fidgeting with his clothes.

Satin isn’t vain, but that’s certainly what the scene looks like at first glance. The sight reminds Jon of standing on the wall and watching Satin adjust the scarecrows. The memory feels like a lifetime ago, and Jon supposes it was. Jon could compliment Satin, but he’s not sure it would help, given the scrutiny with which he’s studying himself. Satin’s been used for his beauty, and it’s also a bit embarrassing to say aloud the things he says in his head. 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He turns and looks at Jon, “Talk about what?”

“You’re fretting,” Jon says, “which means you’re nervous.”

“No.”

“You’ve changed your hair between the same two styles four times.”

From the shift in Satin’s expression, Jon’s caught him, “They’re people you trust and love, so I’m sure they’re _good_ , but everyone here makes me anxious.”

“You don’t have to go,” Jon replies, “I’ll decline, too--we can stay here.”

“No, I want to be--” Satin shakes his head, “The other day, when I was talking with Ser Brienne, you kissed me in front of her. It was to stop me from telling her about your feelings for Jaime, and I _know_ that, but I liked it, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“It felt good to be recognized.”

Jon pulls Satin into an embrace. They’re both unused to affection, but Satin wraps his arms around Jon’s back and tucks his head against his collarbone. 

“I won’t lie--I don’t want Ser Brienne to know. They’ve just found each other, and she doesn’t need to be burdened with my feelings. Mostly, I wanted to reassure you.”

“Of what?”

“That you’re welcome wherever I am,” Jon replies, “That I’m not thinking of Jaime, and I’m glad for your company. That no one will harm you while I draw breath.”

Satin looks up at him, “You sound _terribly_ romantic. How am I supposed to resist you?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to?”

“You’ve gotten so charming since becoming Hand of the King,” Satin leans up and kisses him, “Where’s the surly Jon Snow from Castle Black?”

“Maybe Jaime rubbed off on me?”

”When we met, you were a bastard, too, and I thought happenstance made our lives so different.”

“I haven’t changed.”

“Not to yourself, but mayhaps to others.”

It’s not so easy to accept what he doesn’t want to be. There _are_ things Jon wants, though--to be a good Hand to Jaime, to help his family and the people of King’s Landing. “My name doesn’t matter; I want the same things.”

“I’ll come to dinner if you’ll stay with me,” Satin answers, “I only know one way to talk to people above me, and I’m not that person anymore. Unless you want me to try to get them all into bed?”

“N-no,” Jon replies, “Especially not my sisters.”

Satin laughs warmly, “Your sisters are safe, Jon; I’m not attracted to women.”

* * *

Dinner is pleasant.

No one asks Satin strange questions. They ask him about Castle Black and the Night’s Watch, which leads to him praising Jon until he wants to slide out of his chair and under the table. Satin is charming and personable, and halfway through dinner he seems to remember that fact. Jon still envies his social graces, which seem to come naturally.

Margaery mentions the cold North, and they spend several minutes talking about the milder climate in the Reach.

“I wish I could convince Queen Sansa to stay here in King’s Landing.”

“I can’t be queen without being physically present in my domain,” Sansa replies.

The topic leads easily into tactics to stay warm in the North, and Jaime, Satin, and Margaery make some not-so-thinly veiled innuendos about sharing body heat. No one directs too many queries at Jon, so he spends a lot of the evening thinking about his conversation with Sansa. She sits beside Margaery, and there’s nothing overt about their relationship, but the longer Jon looks, the more the nature of it shines through. They lean into one another as they speak, and Sansa’s smiles come easily.

It’s easy to see why Sansa is attracted to Margaery--beyond her beauty, Jon knows she’s clever; the slyness of her smile reveals it. They’d both been used as bargaining pieces by men. Sansa had enough of that, and Margaery would certainly feel the same. Jon understands ceasing to desire what hurt her; that when she looked for comfort, or stability, her heart searched elsewhere.

Men hurt Satin, too, and he still wants Jon.

Jon seeks Margaery out after the meal concludes; she looks like she expects him, which doesn’t necessarily ease his nerves. She’s leaning against the wall turning a glass of wine between her fingers.

“Sansa told me you had words for me,” she smiles at him.

“Lady Margaery,” Jon remembers his courtesies and greets her. “I...although, I suppose none of it is proper to ask about.”

“You’re Northern,” her smile grows, “there’s much less pomp there, isn’t there?”

“Much less,” Jon nods. The courtesies lessened the further north one went; he forgot all the finer points of decorum and etiquette at Castle Black. Or maybe it was that bastards never learned them like true born children did.

“It’s quite refreshing,” Margaery lilts.

“You have my gratitude for keeping Sansa company.”

“It’s no trouble; Sansa is easy to love,” she tilts her head, “She also informed me of _what_ you might ask.”

“... _Oh.”_

_I’m uncertain if that makes me feel better or worse._

Margaery takes a sip of wine and grins, “You’re handsome, Jon Snow.”

“I-- _what?”_

“You heard me,” Margaery takes a step toward him, “You’re a fine man, and Sansa is beautiful. I think both of those things, and one doesn’t interfere with the other.”

“You’re attracted to both.” _Is Margaery Tyrell admitting she’s attracted to me?_ She _is_ beautiful, but doesn’t draw his eye like Jaime or Satin do. _She’s too intimidating._

“I am,” Margaery confirms, “but my brother, Loras, isn’t. You’d never find a lady in his bed, but you might find a man in mine. Not recently, of course. Sansa keeps me _quite_ occupied.”

Jon is _thrilled_ that his sister has a fulfilling love life, but he definitely doesn’t need those details. His anguish must show because Margaery laughs, a ladylike giggle into her hand. _She acts so innocent, but underneath…_

“Have you always,” Jon searches for the right words, “found your attention so...divided?”

“Yes,” she answers, “Although girls spend their childhoods in closer company, it never seemed odd to want to be near them. I have no sisters, so it was always bannerman's daughters. Loras and I were quite close, too.”

"When did you first realize it?"

Margaery shrugs, "I didn't realize it; it's just the way I've always been."

 _Have I always been this way, too?_ Jon only knows when he noticed it. "Does it bother Sansa?"

Margaery looks genuinely confused, "Why would Sansa care?"

"...Because there's something you _could_ desire that she can't provide." 

The confusion on Margaery's face shifts to a smile, but Jon sees pity there. "You're like me, Jon Snow."

"I...think so."

"Do you live in fear of your wandering attention? Are you so easily distracted from the person currently in your bed?"

The premise offends Jon; Satin travelled halfway across Westeros because he thought Jon needed someone. He deserves to feel treasured by the person he places his trust in. Jon isn’t sure he’s managing, but he’s _trying._

And, if Jaime is to be believed, Satin _loves--_

"He has faith in me; I wouldn't dishonor that."

"Then what does it matter the number of people you _could_ want?" The pitying expression leaves Margaery's face. "Sansa knows where I want to be. I show her, in whatever way she desires."

Jon knows where he wants to be, too. 

* * *

“Lady Margaery was flirting with you after dinner.”

Jon stops mid-step--they’ve just stepped outside into a breezeway to head back to Jon’s chambers.

“She wasn’t.”

“Jon, I’m not sure what it would take to get you to notice someone making an advance at you.” Satin smiles--Jon can see it in his periphery. Then, Satin continues, “Actually, I _do_ know. If she kissed you, then you’d believe me.’

“I don’t want Lady Margaery to kiss me.”

Satin looks a bit relieved, “You’re quite popular; I should consider myself lucky.”

“We were talking about you and Sansa.”

“Oh?”

“They’re--” _Like us?_ “...lovers,” Jon chooses the word carefully. “I wanted to know how they navigated that when my sister is queen.”

“And what answers did you find?”

“Sansa told me no one really notices,” Jon _still_ doesn’t quite understand why. “But people are already gossiping about us.”

“Women are expected to be close and affectionate. It can hide many things,” Satin curls his fingers around Jon’s elbow, “Did Lady Margaery have anything to add?”

“Do you recall what you said to me before dinner?”

“That I wouldn’t seduce your sisters?”

“A little bit after that.”

“That I’ve no interest in women.” Satin laughs, “Jon, have you been pondering that all evening?”

Jon’s thoughts tumble out of his mouth in a tangled lump, “After our-- _her_ father was killed, Sansa suffered at the hands of men. She was married and held captive and used as a pawn. She doesn’t want a man to have power over her, and she doesn’t want to marry.” 

“She chose someone who understands her,” Satin answers, “And she doesn’t desire what hurt her.”

“I know you don’t want pity,” Jon halts and turns Satin to face him, “but men hurt you, too, and I’m trying to understand why you don’t seek something else as Sansa does.”

“Who says I don’t? Do you think you’re like those men?”

“I want to be honorable,” Jon glances at the ground, “I hope you wouldn’t stay here if I wasn’t.”

“You’re bound up in the person’s sex,” Satin tightens his grip on Jon’s elbow, “Queen Sansa chose a woman because men hurt her, but more than that, she chose someone who understood her. Do you remember our first night together?”

Jon flushes, “How could I forget?”

“I told you that sex wasn’t just sex.”

“I told you I didn’t want power.”

“You wanted me to keep you warm,” Satin chuckles.

“...You don’t have to mock me.”

“I’m not,” Satin’s expression softens. _Love_ , Jon thinks, and it catches in his throat and steals his reply. Thankfully, Satin isn’t done speaking. “I felt safe.”

 _Maybe that’s how Sansa feels, too?_ “Sansa seems confident about no men,” Jon furrows his brow, “but Lady Margaery seems inclined toward both.”

“Like you.”

 _Like me._ Jon doesn’t talk about Ygritte often, but the few times he did, Satin never seemed bothered. “And that doesn’t worry you.”

“Do you think I’m fretting over the possibility of your wandering eye?” He takes a step forward to invade Jon’s personal space.

Jon doesn’t have a wandering eye, but Satin might not be convinced. “...Maybe?”

“I _think_ I can keep you entertained, Jon Snow.”


	7. Satin V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's something I've never understood about men."
> 
> Jon looks up from whatever he's pouring over at his desk. He looks mildly confused, which is understandable given that Satin hadn't even greeted him.
> 
> "You're a man," Jon's tone is bland.
> 
>  _"Fine,"_ Satin amends, "What I don't understand about the kind of men who forcefully proposition people in taverns."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sad this is the last chapter, but I am amazed at the response this fic has gotten, given that it's mostly smut. Thank you SO much for the kind reviews! 
> 
> I have more ideas for fics in this universe. I collected them into a series for easy subscribing and bookmarking.

"There's something I've never understood about men."

Jon looks up from whatever he's pouring over at his desk. He looks mildly confused, which is understandable given that Satin hadn't even greeted him.

"You're a man," Jon's tone is bland.

" _Fine_ ," Satin amends, "What I don't understand about the kind of men who forcefully proposition people in taverns."

Satin hadn't wanted to be this specific because Jon stands up from his desk chair with enough force to make the legs scrape across the stone floor. Satin winces at the noise, but Jon pays it no mind. 

"Did someone bother you?"

Much like at Castle Black, Satin doesn't tell Jon when people bother him. Most are a harmless, garden-variety of harassment that can easily be refused. Sometimes people's propositions are genuine interest, and he politely declines.

Refusing hasn't gotten old.

"It's nothing to play knight over," Satin waves a hand, "I can handle myself, _my lord."_

Jon sits back down, "I know you can."

That Jon is so willing to rise to his defense is both charming and frustrating. It's worth every indignity Satin has ever suffered to have a man like Jon, who will come to his aid, even if he's overzealous about it.

"This is more of a...general observation."

"Alright."

Satin feels a bit foolish now; Jon is regarding him with his usual weighty expression. He goes very serious whenever Satin talks about the past. Satin tries his best to discuss it frankly in the hope that it will make some effort to normalize it. 

He goes to Jon and leans against the desk, “People ask for the same things over and over. Of course, there’s only so many variations, and most people aren’t terribly imaginative.” Imaginative wasn’t usually something Satin wanted in a client. “But _every_ drunkard demands that I suck his cock.”

Jon’s reply is a furrowed brow; it’s fine, Satin isn’t done talking anyway.

“The first day we spoke in the armory at Castle Black, that’s what the man demanded. ‘Get on your knees.’ If I had a gold dragon for every man who uttered those words at me, I’d have more money than sense.”

“It is...pleasurable,” Jon utters the words slowly, like it’s a crime to admit that something meant to feel good does.

“It’s a power fantasy,” Satin continues, “They want me to submit, and I could be whatever or whoever they want beneath them, but _that’s_ not what nettles me.”

“Please, continue.” Jon's expression says he was about to explain how he never wants power over Satin.

“They always sound so fucking _proud_ of themselves for thinking of it,” Satin says. “There’s this smugness, every time, like they’re the first person to think of sucking a cock. With the man yesterday, I played like I didn’t understand what he wanted. Then I asked him if he thought he was clever for inventing it, as if it wasn’t something _everyone_ knows about. ”

Jon pales, then reddens in rapid succession. The transition is so swift Satin doesn’t know what to make of it. Even Jon’s _ears_ are red, and he’s looking at the ceiling. _There’s a story here; one that I want to know very badly._

“Jon,” his voice takes on a lilting tone that’s surely grating to everyone but him, “You’re thinking _very_ loudly. What about?”

“...Nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“And yet, it _is_ nothing.”

Satin leans in until Jon and he are nose-to-nose, “You look like a tomato. I haven’t seen you this mortified since the first time _I--”_

“It’s really nothing.”

“Are you worried about how I feel when I--”

“No,” Jon interrupts, “Although, I’d want you to tell me if anything was wrong.”

 _He’s too good._ Sometimes, Satin doesn’t even know what to do with such goodness. “I’d tell you, but only if you tell me what is making you want to slide under the table.”

“You reminded me of something embarrassing from my youth.”

Jon is still young, but Satin knows how experience can age. He’s not that old, either, but whores don’t get childhoods. “An embarrassing tale? I _love_ embarrassing tales.”

 _Jon just doesn’t love telling them._ He talked about Jaime, though, so under the right conditions, he will share.

“Ygritte,” Jon pauses, “When we were together, I had the idea to--to use my mouth to-- _anyway_ , neither of us had ever encountered that.”

“ _Oh,”_ Satin feels a laugh bubbling up, but stifles it.

“She asked if it was a fancy thing southern lords do. I said I didn’t know.” Another pause. “I’d really, truly _never_ considered it. Then, she wanted to know if I’d invented it, and I just--”

 _Tomato_ doesn’t cover the color of Jon’s face. It’s such a contrast to how he presents himself as Hand, or as Lord Commander. Satin is _certain_ few others see Jon Snow like this. The laugh Satin tried to stifle a moment ago bursts out until he’s so overcome with it that his eyes start watering.

 _“Jon,”_ Satin takes a deep breath, “How could you _think_ \--did no one talk about these things?”

 _“Who_ would?”

“I don’t know.” Satin truly has no frame of reference for when and where people learn about sex. “Your brothers?”

Jon shakes his head, “Anyway, I suppose we _both_ thought we were clever.”

“Was she at least impressed?”

“She liked it well enough,” Jon answers, “and asked for it again.”

“Because of your skill. Who could be better than the inventor himself?”

“I didn’t invent it, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

 _“_ Anyone would be better,” he pauses. “You are, certainly.”

“Ah,” Satin moves to the arm of Jon’s chair, “You’re flattering me.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“It’s simply practice.” Jon _might_ take that innuendo in the statement the wrong way and recoil from the implication. For Jon, Satin finds the practice quite rewarding indeed.

Jon looks skeptical, which is better than the well-meaning concern that graces him sometimes. “The recipient being a man surely...impacts the technique.”

Satin laughs, “It does, but I’m certain you, as the inventor, could figure it out with ease.”

From the arm of the chair, it’s easy to slide in Jon’s lap. Jon lets out a startled sound, but loops an arm around Satin’s waist. Once, Satin wished he was stronger, more masculine--he could defend himself, and people wouldn’t want him the same way. Jon’s arms around him change the feeling completely; he _fits_ here, and if he was someone else, someone with a different life, that might not be the case.

“I’ve never done it.” 

“I didn’t assume you had.” He’s not sure he can ask Jon, even though he wants to. Sometimes, the feeling he gets when Jon shows him affection is overwhelming. “Unless, you lied about the number of men you’ve encountered since we last met?”

Jon’s expression is thoughtful, like he’s trying to navigate what he wants to say. “Would it...please you, if I tried?”

Their eyes meet for a second; Jon’s gaze has that intensity it gets when he’s firmly decided something. He’ll stay his course, though all matter of obstacles. _One of his best qualities._

“No one’s ever,” Satin feels the transfer of some of Jon’s embarrassment onto him. He can talk about all manner of things, but stating what he wants is a hurdle that trips him, even though he knows it’s coming. “Well, surely _someone_ has; I just can’t recall it. No one wants to pay a whore for that.”

Satin probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it, even if someone _had_ wanted to.

Jon puts his hand on his shoulder, slides it upward until his fingertips are buried in Satin’s hair. Then, Jon pulls him forward into a kiss. This is another thing Satin likes--unhurried and aimless contact. There was none of that in the brothel; Jon is the first to kiss him for the sake of kissing him.

“There’s no whore here,” Jon whispers, “but there _is_ Satin Flowers, who should ask if there’s something he wants.”

“Jon--”

It’s not the same as letting Jon take him; that was trusting him with a vulnerability, with something others used to hurt him and knowing Jon wouldn’t. This was Jon doing something solely for Satin’s pleasure.

“Just tell me; I want to please you.”

Their positions are reversed, now. Jon is usually the one who struggles with the language, and Satin is the one who knows everything. “I’d like to see your invention,” Satin means to tease, but the words sound a bit seductive. _Good._ Jon deserves to be seduced.

“It hasn't really been tested yet, so there could be some, um, hiccups.”

That Jon continues the joke makes Satin smile. “I’ll give you feedback.” 

“Sit on the desk?”

Satin does, but he’s reluctant to leave the warmth of Jon’s lap. There’s parchment under him, but if Jon doesn’t mind, then neither does he. Jon stands so they’re eye-to-eye and puts his hand on Satin’s knee. 

“I can’t _believe_ I’ve never done this.”

“I can,” Satin leans in and kisses Jon briefly, “I’ve never asked.”

“Can you ask now?”

“Jon, suck my cock.” The explicitness of the request has an effect on both of them. Satin feels the stirrings of desire; Jon sucks in a breath and tightens the grip on his knee. Satin smirks and adds, “Please.”

The polite request sends Jon to his knees. 

The sight makes Satin’s heart race like nothing else before. _Nothing has even happened yet._ It _will_ though. Jon cares and wants Satin to feel good. That’s just--

“Any advice you’d care to dispense?”

Even with his racing heart and southerly rushing blood, Satin manages a joke, “What advice could I possibly impart upon the creator of the act?”

Jon huffs, “Satin, I’m asking a serious question.”

He ruffles Jon’s hair, “Don’t gnaw on it.”

“I-- _what?”_

“Don’t take too much, and don’t forget about breathing.”

Jon seems to take that piece of advice to heart; he nods seriously, “That’s it?”

“I’ll make the rest easy.” Satin won’t thrust into Jon’s mouth, he won’t grab onto him and hold him in place. All those things were done to him; Jon doesn’t need to experience _any_ of them. 

Satin’s cock is half-hard when Jon frees it from his pants. Jon eyes it for a too-long moment where Satin feels an acute flush of embarrassed arousal. It’s worse when Jon makes eye contact. Preemptively, Satin grips the edge of the desk.

Jon’s first touch is an experimental lick. It’s barely anything, but it’s _Jon_ , so it’s everything. He grips the desk tighter when Jon repeats the gesture from the base to the head. Satin wants, desperately and immediately, to have Jon’s mouth engulf him fully. It’s an urgent, maddening feeling, and _this_ is where men push. Satin’s been the victim of that push so, so many times.

When, finally, Jon takes him in his mouth, Satin grips so hard he thinks he’s going to break the desk. His heart races, and his breath comes in harsh pants. Jon takes his advice seriously--Satin’s cock only meets wet heat. There’s a graze of teeth now and then, which Satin thought he would hate, and doesn’t mind at all. What Jon can’t take, he encircles with his hand and uses the moisture to slide upward.

“J-Jon,” Satin stumbles his name, completely lost in the sensation of it. It never occurred to him that receiving this would feel so, _so_ good. It was always about power and submission, not pleasure.

The urge to reach out to Jon, to bury his fingers in his hair, is so strong that Satin can barely resist the pull. He knows what that feels like, the insistent hands _._ Jon feels _so_ good, but Satin won’t push. Another moment passes where Satin is lost in heat, like his entire existence is reduced down to Jon’s mouth. Then, it’s gone, and Satin feels very bereft until Jon takes one of his hands and uncurls his grip on the desk. He’s confused momentarily, until Jon rests his temple against Satin’s knee and looks up at him.

“It’s alright,” Jon says, “You won’t hurt me.”

The words are an echo of Satin’s own, said long ago when Jon feared hurting him, feared that certain actions were unspoken and unknown traps.

“Stop me if I do,” Satin nearly begs, “I know the feeling of--”

“You’re more than that.”

Jon squeezes his fingers, lets go, and returns to his task. The rhythm is better, more fluid, and Satin does as Jon bid him and buries his fingers in Jon’s hair. He lets out a tiny moan when Satin grabs a handful of hair as Jon takes his cock particularly deep.

_“Jon.”_

Satin is going to come, and it’s going to be blinding and glorious. When he does this for Jon, Satin likes the moment Jon lets go--when his grip is just a _bit_ too tight and he forgets to be measured. _I make him come undone_. Satin always thinks it’s a triumph to see Jon in a frenzy.

It never occurred to him that Jon might desire that, too.

When Satin’s climax hits him, he means to warn Jon and fails utterly. One moment, it’s building and there’s time; in the next, he’s spilling in Jon’s mouth, hands tightening in his hair. The slight pressure and the wet heat are too overwhelming. Even his hands in Jon’s hair heighten the experience. Jon startles, but he doesn’t pull back until the Satin’s hips give a final jerk forward as the last of the aftershocks leave him.

Jon _swallows,_ and Satin, guiltily, adores the sight of it. Satin remembers coughing and spitting it out the first time; it earned him a slap in the face. Of course, the two situations are nothing alike. Jon looks up at him, concern evident in his gray eyes. Satin hasn’t removed his hands from Jon’s hair.

“How was I?”

Satin pulls the errant strands of his thoughts together into some answer Jon will find coherent. “You did well--you _always_ do well.”

Jon smiles a bit, “Your hands, in my hair, I...liked that.”

“I like it, too,” he pulls his hands from Jon’s hair and smooths it down fruitlessly, “When you do it.”

"The end felt...sudden," Jon admits, "I'm not sure I enjoyed that part."

"Understandable. I meant to warn you, but I failed," Satin laughs, "Come here." 

Jon stands and Satin takes his face between his hands and pulls him into a kiss. He tastes himself on Jon's lips and finds that’s alright, too. The kiss isn't enough; Jon's mouth on him wasn't enough. It's never enough until they're as close as two people can be. Jon has a hand on his back, steps until they're flush against each other. Satin hooks a leg around Jon and rests his forehead against Jon's shoulder. 

_Better, but not enough._

"I think the claim that you invented it is a fine thing," Satin mumbles into Jon's shoulder. "I've never felt it like that, so it must be true."

Jon is surely furrowing his brow; Satin can imagine the scowl as he tries to parse the words for meaning. "I'm _certain_ you don't mean my technique."

"You care about how I feel." _And it shows in everything._ What Satin wants, now, is more of Jon’s attention. He’s learned, over the weeks he’s been in King’s Landing, and some before, that Jon wants to hear what he wants. “Jon, that wasn’t enough. Show me the rest of what you’ve become so good at.”

Because Jon is comfortable, he laughs, “Even things you _know_ I didn’t invent?

_“Everything.”_

Jon could probably carry him, like a princess in a story, but it’s better for Satin to take Jon’s hand and walk to the bed with him. It’s another showing of Satin’s trust, that he lets Jon disrobe him, piece by piece. That he can kneel on the bed, with Jon out of sight, and have no fear. Sometimes, he has a feeling in his stomach like dropping off a high ledge--a cold dread that’s an echo from the past. Jon’s voice in his ear, or his familiar hand on his back, sends the memories scattering.

There’s still hesitancy in Jon’s touch, still times when he asks for guidance or confirmation. The open discussion of the pleasure between them only makes it better when Jon finally tells Satin to roll onto his back.

“You’re so good,” Satin is breathless from Jon’s touch, “Have I told you that?”

“Once or twice,” Jon’s smile is warm.

“You can suffer hearing it again.”

“That’s enough talking for now.”

It took a lot for Satin to ask for this _._ At first, he’d been grateful that Jon seemed to not want to take the initiative. Even as Satin’s trust and admiration grew, this scared him. _I should’ve trusted Jon more._ He should’ve felt more confidence in his choice and his ability to judge the kind of man Jon is.

After, it’s like the first time Jon held him--the comfort of the embrace overwhelms him. Satin feels a burning behind his eyes and tries to stop it. Crying in Jon's arms would be _mortifying,_ so he hides his face in Jon’s shoulder.

Satin loves Jon, and it grows very hard to keep it to himself. 

_Maybe saying it wouldn't hurt._

Saying it is a choice. Decisions have consequences, but they’re Satin's to make. Jon won’t be cruel about it. "Jon." Looking at him is too much, so Satin keeps his face where it is. "Would it be too much if I said I was in love with you?"

Jon’s whole body tenses, and there's a sharp intake of breath. Satin holds him tighter. _The choice is his, too._ Satin is happy to have made it, even if it amounts to naught. 

He’s silent for a long time, but he doesn't release Satin. "Jaime told me you did, and that’s why you stayed."

“You’re good to me,” Satin's reply is muffled. "I didn't understand how that made me feel until you were gone."

"That doesn't mean you owe me your love."

"It's not a debt.” Satin braves looking at Jon, "You earned it. I've never had anything to give anyone before."

Jon studies him for a long, tense moment where Satin is certain every beat of his heart is audible. 

"I wish for your happiness above my own.” Jon says, "and I want you with me. My duty is to protect you and ensure that you’re well, even if you don’t need me to.”

"You always defend me, even when it wounds you."

“Because it’s important to me that you aren’t maligned.” A small smile comes into Jon's features, "Isn’t all that love?"

“I hope so.”

“When did you first…?”

“The first day in the armory.” Satin wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but the timing feels true. “I felt so _safe_ then and everyday after. Even when I was frightened, I thought _Jon knows what he’s doing.”_

“You think too highly of me.”

“I only know what I see.”

“I’m ordinary,” Jon deflects, “which means my love is ordinary, too, but you have it.”

Jon isn’t looking at himself the right way. _Maybe good people never do?_ There’s a humbleness that Satin hopes Jon never loses. Satin would enjoy a lifetime of showing Jon what he sees when he looks at him.

“You prove, over and over, that you’re a good man.”

“I try and live up to your expectations.”

Satin tells Jon the same thing he told him years ago in the Lord Commander’s chambers at Castle Black.

“You already have.”


End file.
